Taryn
The gym was nearly empty when I slipped inside—just Caz, shirtless, glistening with sweat, throwing punches into a training bag like it had personally offended him.
His back was to me.
I didn’t think. I didn’t knock. I didn’t call his name.
I just walked straight to him, dropped my bag on the floor, and grabbed his face in my hands.
He barely had time to register the movement before my mouth was on his.
Hot. Fierce. Desperate.
It wasn’t a kiss meant for hello—it was a kiss meant to undo, to possess, to burn.
He froze for half a second, fists still taped, his knuckles raw and red. Then he dropped his arms and kissed me back like I was the oxygen he’d been denied for weeks.
“Taryn,” he groaned against my lips, gripping my waist. “What—?”
“Don’t talk,” I whispered. “Please don
