Roman kisses me like he’s been waiting for this all night.
Hell—like he’s been waiting for three years.
And maybe I’ve been waiting too.
This is hotter than the kiss we shared in his office earlier today. His lips are hot and demanding, the taste of whiskey slipping last my tongue as it meets his.
I hate how much I respond.
God, I hate how much I melt into him. I hate how much I need this.
Need him.
I grip the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded—because it is, and he groans against my mouth when I open up even more for him.
His tongue is teasing, taking, tasting, and he lifts me up and onto the counter, not taking his mouth away from mine.
He’s going to ruin me. Literally.
Going to end my f*****g life.
But my brain is too fuzzy to care about that at t
