Fuck.
Her lips part just slightly, her brows pulling together like she’s feeling something she doesn’t quite know what to do with. “Shut up, Zachs,” she whispers.
And kisses me.
Damn.
I swear I feel it first. That rush of heat curling through my blood, setting me on fire.
Her lips are warm, soft, a perfect contrast to everything that’s ever touched me. She melts against me, and I take my time, tasting her, memorizing the way she gasps when I tease the seam of her lips with my tongue.
Fuck, that sound.
She fists my shirt, pulling me deeper, and I go, slow and savoring, pressing into her like I can brand myself there.
She’s breathless when I pull back, her fingers still curled in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll move.
I brush a thumb across her bottom lip, swallowing the sound she makes.
“Again,” I murmur, my lips barely ghosting hers.
She exhales shakily, but I feel her smile.
Then she kisses me again.
Do we have time for this?
Do we not?
Nothing in this fucking world is guaranteed, except that right now I need to give her everything.
I think about the rooms, the layouts. She’s not the kind of woman you toss against a wall. She deserves a bed. Softness. But there’s no time, and she’s already on me, pressing against my chest, her hands greedy, searching, demanding.
Holy fuck.
I can’t think. I don’t want to.
“Want to scream my name?” I murmur, voice low, rough.
She doesn’t answer. She just backs me against the wall.
Dear. Fucking. God.
She’s got no clue how deep I am. How lost. How fucking hers I’ve been from the second she let me have her.
I’m gonna make her feel it.
Every.
Fucking.
Ounce.
“Not here,” I grit out, catching her wrist, dragging her toward the first open door I see.
Inside. No bed.
Just a table.
