My breath roughens.
So does hers.
I don’t talk about it. I don’t explain it.
I feel it.
That rhythm inside me that started the second, I saw her gets louder, the bass heavier. I feel it in my blood.
My hand slides up her side, slow, deliberate—claiming the line of her waist, the curve of her ribs—and she hisses at the contact.
Not pain. Reaction. Alive. Desired.
“Yeah,” I murmur, voice low, rough. “You feel that too.”
Her fingers fist against my chest, not pushing me away—holding on.
Anchoring. Or maybe bracing.
Doesn’t matter.
She’s not stopping me.
That’s all I need.
I dip my head.
Take her mouth.
No hesitation this time. No restraint.
My lips press to hers, firm, claiming, and she gasps—then melts into it, the sound that escapes her a soft, broken moan that goes straight through me.
Mine.
The thought hits hard, dark, instinctive.
I deepen the kiss, angling my head, taking more—slow but deliberate, like I’ve already decided how this goes.
She answers.
Fuck me, she answers.
Not passive.
Not uncertain.
Her body leans into mine, heat for heat, breath for breath, like she’s done pretending she doesn’t want this.
Like she’s done pretending she doesn’t want me.
My hand tightens at her waist, pulling her closer—closer than close—until there’s no doubt left between us.
No space.
No question.
She breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, lips brushing mine as she exhales.