I lean into him until no space is left. No room for second thoughts.
His mouth moves against mine with a kind of certainty that makes my head spin, makes everything else fall away until nothing is left but this moment and the way it feels to finally stop holding back.
My fingers slide into his shirt again. Move upward and across his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the strength, the heat.
Everything about him is solid. Real. And I don’t want to step away from that. His grip tightens.
The kiss deepens, and I forget everything else. We don’t stop right away, which makes this different from any other time.
There’s no interruption, no forced break. And the slow, steady realization that we’re crossing into something that doesn’t have an easy way back.
When we finally pull apart, it’s not because we have to. It’s because we know what comes next if we don’t.
My forehead rests briefly against his. Our breathing, uneven.
“This changes things,” I say.
His answer comes without hesitation.
“It already did.”
Holt’s mouth is on mine again before I have the chance to think. There’s no warning. No space to prepare for it. Just heat and pressure and the sharp, sudden awareness of him everywhere all at once.
For half a second, I don’t move, then something in me gives.
My hands find his shirt from the inside, gripping it tight, pulling him closer, as if distance is suddenly unbearable. He tastes like mint and something that is just him—and it shouldn’t work, but it does. It works too well.
His hand slides to the back of my thigh and lifts me like it’s nothing, twisting us as he sets me on the counter in one smooth motion. My breath catches when my back bumps into something solid behind me, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Just leans in deeper, like he’s been holding this back longer than I realized.
And maybe he has.
Days of tension snap tight between us, all those sharp looks and half-finished conversations and things we didn’t say finally finding somewhere to go.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling just enough to tilt his head the way I want, and he lets me. For a second, I’m the one in control. For a second, he follows.
Then his hands move—strong, certain—sliding up my back, gathering my shirt like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.
The kiss breaks just long enough for him to drag it over my head, and the loss of his mouth is immediate. I feel it like something missing.
His eyes drop to my bare skin for a beat. Just one. But it’s enough to send heat spiraling low in my stomach. Then he’s back on me. Harder this time. Hungrier.
His palm traces up my side, rough in a way that shouldn’t feel good but absolutely does, and when his fingers curl at my jaw, guiding my head back, I let him. I let him take that control because I want to see what he does with it.
His mouth moves to my neck, slower now, deliberate. Like he’s figuring me out as he goes.
“Holt—” My voice barely makes it out before my head tips back against the cabinet.
My breath catches, not entirely for the reason it should. I should push him away. I should stop this before it turns into something I can’t take back. Instead, I tighten my grip in his hair and pull his mouth back to mine.
My hand slides down his chest, feeling the tension in his body even through the fabric, the way he reacts to my touch like it means something. Like I mean something. That realization alone is enough to shift everything.
I flick open the button of his jeans without breaking the kiss, slipping my hand beneath the waistband, and the sharp inhale he gives me is immediate. Real.
His body goes still for a second. Not pulling away. Not stopping me. Just—feeling it. Then what little control he has snaps. His hand tightens on my hip, grounding, steadying, taking back the space between us in one decisive movement.
“We’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice rough now, lower than before. “If you want to stop, then you need to say so now.”
The only answer he hears is my deep breaths. I couldn’t back out if I wanted to. My body craves being touched like this. And only by him.
