Lena forced herself to walk toward the breakfast table, each step feeling as if it echoed the frantic rhythm beating inside her ribcage, her heart striking so violently she half-expected it to burst straight through her chest, and with every movement she replayed the night before in torturously sharp detail.
She was still reeling—utterly shaken—from what had happened only hours earlier, her thoughts colliding wildly inside her skull like a storm she couldn’t outrun, each memory crashing into the next until she felt breathless all over again.
She had kissed men before, of course she had, but nothing—absolutely nothing—had ever come remotely close to what she had felt when Zayn’s mouth had crashed against hers.
He hadn’t kissed her; no, he had consumed her, devoured her, taken the ground
