My grip tightens on her.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to hold.
Enough to make it clear she’s not slipping out of this conversation, not retreating behind that sharp mouth and those defenses she throws up when she’s scared.
“You think I say things I don’t mean?” I ask, voice low, rough, threaded tight with something darker now.
She opens her mouth.
I don’t let her speak.
Not this time.
I move. Fast. Decisive.
My hand slides up, fingers closing around her jaw, tilting her face exactly where I want it.
“Look at me,” I order.
She does.
And there it is—that fire. That doubt. That pull she’s trying like hell to fight.
I lean in, close enough that she has to feel my breath, has to feel what she’s doing to me without me saying another word.
“You don’t get to pretend this isn’t happening,” I murmur. “Not after last night.”
Her pulse jumps under my thumb.
I feel it.
Track it.
Own it.
“And not after the way you’re looking at me right now.”
That hits.
I see it land.
Her hands come up to my chest again—not pushing, not this time. She’s clutching at me, anchoring herself. Like she needs something solid to hold onto.
Good. Because I’m it for her.
She’s already halfway there.
I close the distance.
Take her mouth again.
Not controlled this time. Not careful.
This is a claiming kiss. Pure possession and need.
My lips lock onto hers like I’ve already decided this ends one way, and it’s not with distance.