His hand leaves my jaw, skimming down my throat, over my collarbone, settling at the small of my back. He tugs. I go willingly, pressing flush against him.
There’s no space between us now.
My hips bump his. I feel him—hard, real—against my stomach. A tiny gasp slips from me before I can stop it.
He swallows it.
The kiss turns rougher. Teeth. Tongue. Seven years of hunger trying to cram itself into one moment.
He walked me back until my shoulders hit the wall, spare acoustic panels muffling the thud. One of his hands slides up under the hem of my shirt, fingers splaying against bare skin. My breath stutters.
“Dante,” I whisper against his mouth.
He groans, like hearing his name from my lips is better than any song.
His palm skims up my side, thumb grazing the underside of my breast.
