I struggled against him for a moment, my free hand pushing against his chest, my mind screaming that this was wrong, dangerous, insane. But then his tongue swept across my lower lip, and something inside me surrendered.
I melted into him, my resistance crumbling like sand against a tide. My hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. A small, desperate sound escaped my throat—half protest, half plea.
He released my wrist to cup my face, his fingers threading through my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. His other arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me against him until I was practically in his lap, my injured ankle forgotten in the heat of the moment.
It was messy, raw, furious—a storm breaking loose after days of building pressure. His teeth grazed my lower lip, and I gasped, the small pain sending a shock of pleasure through my system. He took advantage of my parted lips to deepen the kiss, his tongue meeting mine in a dance that was more battle than seduction.
I should have been disgusted. Should have been terrified. Should have been anything except what I was—desperate for more, my body arching into his, my hands now clutching at his shoulders as if he were a lifeline rather than the cause of my drowning.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine, his eyes dark with a hunger that made my stomach clench with answering heat.
"Grace," he breathed, like a dying man confessing his sins.
Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water. What was I doing? This was Rafe Conti—my kidnapper, my captor, the man who had taken everything from me. And I was kissing him like my life depended on it.
I pushed away from him abruptly, scrambling back against the headboard, ignoring the twinge from my forgotten ankle. My lips felt bruised, my body humming with an energy I didn't want to acknowledge.
"Don't," I said, the word coming out hoarse and unconvincing. "Don't touch me again."
He didn't try to follow me, didn't try to recapture the moment. He simply sat there, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.
"You felt it too," he said quietly. Not a question. A statement of fact.
I couldn't deny it. Couldn't lie—not to him, not to myself. So I said nothing, turning my face away, unable to meet his gaze.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths. Finally, Rafe stood, his movements careful and controlled, as if afraid of spooking a wild animal.
"Your ankle should be elevated," he said, his voice neutral, as if we hadn't just been devouring each other moments before."And you should keep ice on it for twenty minutes at a time. I'll have someone bring you pain medication if you need it."
I nodded mutely, still not looking at him.
He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "We'll talk tomorrow, Grace. About what just happened. About what it means."
"Nothing happened," I said, the lie bitter on my still-tingling lips. "And it means nothing."
He was quiet for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me even though I refused to meet his gaze.
"Lie to yourself if you need to," he said finally, his voice soft. "But don't lie to me. Not about this."
The door closed behind him with a quiet click, the locks engaging a moment later. I sat frozen on the bed, my mind and body at war, the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin.
What had I done?
More terrifying still: what would I do when he returned tomorrow, when we were face to face again, when the memory of that kiss was still fresh between us?
I touched my lips, still sensitive from his kiss, and felt a treacherous heat curl in my stomach. This was dangerous—more dangerous than any escape attempt, any act of defiance. This was a surrender I couldn't afford, a weakness that could destroy me.
Because in that moment, with his lips on mine and his arms around me, I had forgotten to fight. Had forgotten to resist. Had forgotten everything except the feel of him, the taste of him, the overwhelming rightness of being in his arms.
And that terrified me more than any threat he could make.
I turned onto my side, facing away from the door, curling into myself as if I could physically hide from the truth of what had happened. From the truth of what I'd felt.
Tomorrow, I would be stronger. Tomorrow, I would remember who I was and who he was and why this—whatever this was—could never happen again.
But tonight, in the darkness of my room, with the ghost of his kiss still haunting my lips, I allowed myself to acknowledge the terrible truth:
Part of me wanted it to happen again.
