He tilts his head slightly, changes the angle, and the scrape of his goatee hits differently this time, sharper along my jaw, and it sends bolts of energy to my dick.
I tighten my grip without meaning to.
He doesn’t pull back.
If anything, he presses closer.
There’s a point where it could tip too far, too fast.
I catch it.
Slow it just enough.
Not breaking the kiss. Just pulling it back a fraction, giving us space to breathe.
His forehead drops briefly against mine, breath uneven, mouth still too close to ignore.
“Still a terrible idea,” he murmurs.
“Good.”
There’s the ghost of a smile against my lips.
My forehead rests against his for a second longer than it needs to.
Neither of us moves.
I can still feel the imprint of him. The heat of his mouth, the rough brush of his goatee along my jaw, the way he didn’t hesitate once he’d decided.
That’s the part that sticks.
Not the kiss.
The way he committed to it.
He exhales, then pulls back properly this time, running a hand through his hair like he needs to reset.
“Right,” he says.
His voice is a fraction off. Not much. Just enough.
“Right,” I echo.
We don’t move straight away.
He’s still close. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him even without touching. Close enough that if either of us leans in, we’re right back where we were.
He doesn’t.
Neither do I.
Not this time.
He clears his throat, stepping back first, like he’s forcing the moment to break before it loops into something else.
“We should… go,” he says.
“Yeah.”
