It’s a confession.
It’s everything neither of us could say without destroying ourselves.
And when his hand tightens in my hair and his body presses me harder against him, my knees nearly give out.
He catches me before I fall, still kissing me like the world outside this room doesn’t exist.
For the first time in days, maybe in years, I don’t feel fear.
I feelalive.
Chapter 18
Blueberries.
She tastes like blueberries.
Of course she does.
When Sofia told her that it was her favorite thing to stir into pancakes, Isabella had laughed and said it was hers too.
And now here she is—tasting like the sweetness of my daughter's mornings, invading every corner of my mind I swore I'd sealed off.
It makes me furious.
Furious that she's under my skin, that she's in my blood, that the first woman who's ever looked at me like I'm still worth saving tastes like something my little girl loves.
The anger twists into something darker, hotter.
My hands find her waist. This isn't a caress; it's a command. My fingers dig in, hard, not bruising, but pressing deep enough toleave an imprint, and I shove her back against the wall without ever breaking the kiss.
She gasps, the slight, surprised sound swallowed by my mouth. Her heartbeat kicks against my chest, a frenzied drumbeat that is somehow steady, defiant.
My left palm leaves her waist, a slow, predatory slide upward. It settles, heavy and possessive, at the base of her throat. I don't check for her pulse; Iownit. My thumb presses into the quick, fluttering beat of the carotid artery, a silent, lethal acknowledgment of the power I hold over her.
Every part of me screams to stop.
Every other part wants more.
The air between us thinned with a raw, terrifying question: Did I intend to suffocate her with desire, or simply choke the life out of the risk she presented? I didn't know. The uncertainty was a razor's edge I was forcing her to walk.
My grip on her waist tightens one punishing degree, pulling her hips flush against mine, and with a grunt of pure, choked-off need, I lift her.
She rises easily, her soft, startled moan tearing from her chest and melting instantly into the rough confines of my mouth. Before I can fully process the shift, she responds with an animalistic urgency of her own. Her feet leave the floor, and she jumps, locking her legs around my waist.
The contact is a shockwave. My breath hitches. Control, which I'd been fighting for, snaps like a frayed wire. My fingers instinctively abandon the hard line of her waist and dive into the thick silk of her hair, anchoring her skull, wrenching her head back just enough to deepen the kiss into something savage, something that demanded ownership. She was pure heat, raw appetite, and the scent of blueberries, a maddening contradiction I couldn't resist.
The shift is palpable: she is no longer pinned; she is mounted. We are no longer standing; we are fusing.
The kiss deepens—messy, rough, too much—and for one blinding second I forget who either of us are. Then— A knock. Hard. Sudden.
We break apart like the room exploded.
Our breathing ragged, chests heaving, the air heavy with everything we didn't say.
I rest my forehead against hers, trying to get air back into my lungs, trying to remember how to think.
"What?" I roar toward the door, the word cracking out sharper than I intend.
