Her fingers curl into my shirt and hold, twisting the fabric, pulling me closer like she's trying to get inside my skin.
She kisses me back. Not hesitant. Not performing. She kisses me like she's angry about it. Like she's been holding this at arm's length for weeks and letting go of it feels like a fight she's losing on purpose.
Her tongue slides against mine and she makes a sound, low in her throat, something between a growl and a whimper, and I swallow it.
I kiss her deeper. Harder.
My hand slides from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her in, and my other hand comes up to her jaw, tilting her face where I want it.
My thumb traces the edge of her jawline, the soft skin below her ear, feeling her pulse hammering there, fast and unsteady.
Her mouth opens under mine and I'm gone. The bar disappears. The compound disappears.
The access logs and the anomaly and the word kid and years of earning back trust I didn't break.
There's her. Against me, warm, real.
The taste of her lip balm, something sweet and faintly minty, and the faint citrus smell of her, something clean and bright that cuts through the leather and smoke of the club.
The pressure of her fingers in my shirt, knuckles pressing into my chest.
The small sound she makes in her throat when I pull her closer, a sound that vibrates against my mouth and makes me want to swallow her whole.
I drag my lips across her jaw, her chin, back to her mouth, and kiss her again, slower this time, wet and open and thorough, the kind of kiss that says I've been thinking about this and I'm not done.
Her hand slides up my chest, over my shoulder, fingers threading into the hair at the back of my neck.
She grips. Pulls. Angles my head and takes control of the kiss for a moment, her tongue sliding against mine with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes my stomach drop.
I let her. I let her take it.
My hand tightens on her hip and I press her back against the counter, caging her in, and she arches into me, chest against chest, hip against hip, and I can feel every place she's touching me like a brand.
We break apart. Not because we want to. Because air is a requirement and both of us forgot about it.
My mouth is still close enough to feel her breath, ragged and warm, ghosting across my wet lips.
Her forehead drops against my collarbone.
My hand is still on her waist. My thumb moves against her hip without thinking about it, small circles through the denim.
We're breathing hard, and the kitchen sounds have stopped, which means Beats either left through the back or is being very strategic about his headphone use.
"I don't know your name." She says it into my shirt. Half a laugh, half an accusation.
My mouth is against her hair. "It's?—"
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again. Then a third time. Rapid succession, the way it does when Ruger sends three texts because he doesn't believe in composing a single message like a normal human being.
I pull back enough to check the screen. Three texts, all from Ruger.
Get to the compound.
Now.