We laid down. Back-to-back. Not touching. Not breathing.
Not thinking about the other night or the river kiss or how his arm brushed mine just now—
“You’re doing it again,” I said in the dark.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you want to kiss me.”
He turned, face barely inches from mine in the low candlelight. “That’s because I do.”
Our eyes locked. The silence pulled taut.
And then...
He kissed me.
This time, not slow.
Not polite.
Hungry. Hands tangled in sheets and hair and hesitation. Our legs tangled. Our hearts raced. Lips brushed, then pressed, then devoured. Like he was trying to memorize me. Like I was a language he’d forgotten but desperately wanted to relearn.
When we finally pulled away, breathless, I stared at him.
“You’re going to ruin me.”
“Too late.”
From the
