Myra
The candle died with a final, desperate sputter, but the room didn't go cold. If anything, the air felt thick enough to burn.
Tony didn't move away. In the absolute dark, every other sense I possessed turned up to a deafening volume. I could hear the rough slide of his calloused palms against my skin—a sound like fine sandpaper on silk. I could smell the deep, intoxicating musk of him: a heady cocktail of cocoa butter, salt, and the primal heat of a man who had spent the last decade building a body for labor.
He claimed my mouth again, and this time, the "Ice Queen" didn't just melt; she evaporated.
It’s just biological, I told myself, even as my hands scrambled up his chest to find purchase. It’s adrenaline. It’s the storm. It’s a decade of unresolved chemical tension finally rea
