I don’t speak.
I can’t.
Because Dominic is in my kitchen at midnight, and the way he’s looking at me—like he already knows what’s about to happen—is enough to knock the air straight out of my lungs.
He closes the distance in three steps. His hands come up slowly, as if waiting for me to push him away.
I don’t.
I step into him instead.
“Brie,” he says, low and wrecked. “You still have time to stop this.”
I slide my fingers up his chest. “No, I don’t.”
Then I kiss him.
He groans into my mouth like he’s been starving for it. For me. His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer, and I melt against him, lost in the warmth and danger of him.
This isn’t gentle. This isn’t safe.
This is us—barely restrained, wrong, and so goddamn real I want to cry.
He lifts me onto the counter like I we
