“No.”
The word fell between them.
“Marina.” His voice dropped. “Tell me to stop. Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me anything that will make me walk away right now.”
She should. She knew she should. This was temporary. He was leaving. The bond would break and he would go back to Manhattan and she would stay here, alone, missing him.
But she was so tired of being careful. So tired of protecting herself from things that might hurt. So tired of standing at the edge of something beautiful and choosing not to jump.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to stop.”
ALESSANDRO
He kissed her.
Not the careful, controlled kiss he’d imagined during all those sleepless nights on her too-small couch. This was desperate, hungry, two weeks of tension finally released.
She gasped against his mouth, and the sound broke something loose in him. He pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressed against the small of her back. She melted into him like she’d been waiting for this, like they’d both been waiting, circling each other, pretending they weren’t already falling.
Her desire doubled back through the bond. He felt what she felt, she felt what he felt, and the combined intensity nearly drove him to his knees.
“Alessandro.” His name in her voice, breathless and wanting.
He kissed her deeper. Slower. Learning the shape of her mouth, the way she sighed when he nipped at her lower lip, the small sounds she made that he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.
The rest of his life.
The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like coming home.
“Upstairs,” she breathed against his mouth. “We should?—”
“Yes.”
They barely made it through the door before Alessandro had her pressed against it, his mouth on hers, two weeks of tension collapsing into something urgent and graceless. Her back hit the wood and she heard the deadbolt dig into her spine and didn’t care.
“Bedroom,” Marina gasped against his lips.
“Where?”
“There.” She pointed, but he was already lifting her, her legs wrapping around his waist. They kissed the entire way, messy, off-center, more teeth and breath than technique. His shin cracked against the bedframe.
“Shit—”
“Language,” she said, and he laughed against her mouth, startled, the sound vibrating through her chest.
He set her down beside the bed, and for a moment they just looked at each other. His chest heaving, his eyes dark. His desire hit her through the bond, raw, unfiltered. She felt how he saw her: flour still in her hair, apron strings dangling, cheeks flushed. Not polished. Not poised. Just Marina.
“Tell me you want this,” he said roughly.
“I want this.” She reached for the buttons of his shirt. “I want you. And I want you to stop looking so surprised about it.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m…” His voice caught as her fingers brushed his collarbone. “Recalibrating.”
“Recalibrating,” she repeated. “You’re recalibrating. During this.”
“I’m a planner. It’s a reflex.”
She undid the last button and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. He was beautiful: sharp angles and controlled power, the kind of body that came from tension held too long in too many places. She traced the lines of his chest, feeling hard muscle and skin that was warmer than it should have been. Dragon thermoregulation. She’d noticed it before, in passing. Up close, with her palms flat against his sternum, it was something else entirely.
