He cleared his throat. “Tea?”
Her laugh was soft, surprised, but she nodded. “Always.”
The ritual steadied him. The familiar steps: filling the kettle, waiting for the click, measuring milk with precision. His hands moved automatically, muscle memory pulling him through while his mind churned. He should have left her at the door to her room, but he didn’t want this night to end.
He handed her the cup, careful not to let their fingers brush. But she reached anyway, deliberately, her fingertips grazing his. Her eyes caught his, steady, curious.
Something inside him buckled.
He turned, retreat already forming on his tongue, when her arms slid around his waist.
He froze.
Her body pressed to his, warm, soft. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest, faint but unmistakable. His blood surged, heat roaring through him so fast he felt dizzy.
“Clara…”
Her face tipped up, her lips brushing his.
The kiss was brief, sweet, and hesitant. A thank-you, nothing more. But it stole the air from his lungs, set every nerve ending sparking.
When she pulled back, her forehead lingered near his, her breath mingling with his. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, her lips parted.
The space between them hummed, a live wire crackling.
And then they moved together, as though pulled by the same invisible thread.
The second kiss was nothing like the first. It was wild, frantic, desperate.
His hands found her waist, moulding to the fragile line of her ribs, and he pushed her back against the door with a thud. She gasped into his mouth, her lips opening, and he groaned, the sound rough and unguarded as he tasted her.
Her hands threaded into his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. The scrape of her nails against his scalp sent heat flooding through him. He kissed her like he’d been starving, like all the restraint he’d held for weeks of watching her snapped in an instant. She tasted of cider and warmth, of something sweet he couldn’t name but needed more of.
His stubble rasped against her smooth skin, her tongue tangling with his, hot and insistent. His palm slid lower, gripping the curve of her hip, anchoring her, pressing her closer as though he could fuse her into him.
She kissed him back with equal fire, her body arching into his, her small frame trembling against the solidity of his.
There was nothing careful about it. Nothing strategic. Just raw want, messy and real, spilling over after too long held in.
And God, he didn’t want it to stop.
The kiss burned through him, stripping him raw. He wanted more, God, he wanted everything. The press of her body againsthis, the way her fingers tangled in his hair, the heat of her mouth.
But then, like a blade, memory cut through the haze.
Hands holding him down. Voices taunting. Pain dressed up as power.
His chest seized. He wrenched himself back, tearing his mouth from hers.
“Clara.” His voice was rough, unsteady. He couldn’t look at her.
She was breathless, lips swollen, eyes dazed with desire. “What is it?”
“I… can’t.” The words scraped out of him. He stepped back, putting space between them, hating the flicker of hurt on her face. “Not tonight.”
Silence stretched, thick with confusion and something unspoken. Then she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, clutching the edge of the door. “Goodnight,” she whispered.
He muttered something, he wasn’t even sure what, and turned, retreating fast down the corridor, each step heavier than the last.
