"Nate—"
"Tell me to stop," he says against my throat, even as his free hand slides under the hem of my dress, fingers splaying across my thigh. "Tell me this is a bad idea and I'll stop."
"Don't stop," I gasp. "Don't you dare stop."
His hand slides higher, and I'm making sounds I'd be embarrassed about if I could think past the sensation of his touch, his mouth, his body surrounding mine.
But then he pulls back slightly, breathing hard, eyes wild.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice wrecked. "I shouldn't have. I can’t?—“
"Sorry?" The word comes out sharp, frustrated.
“I can't—I can't survive losing you again. I barely survived it the first time, let alone the second."
I take a step toward him, then another, until I'm close enough to touch.
"What if I told you that kissing you scares me more than anything else in the world? Because I know every time we get close, something goes wrong.” I take a shaky breath. "But I'm so tired of being scared, Nate. I'm so tired of not being honest with myself and choosing safe over real. And you—" my voice breaks, "—you're the most real thing I've ever had."
"Len—"
"I don't want to run anymore," I whisper. "I don't want to choose what makes sense over what makes me feel alive. And you make me feel alive. Even when it terrifies me. Especially when it terrifies me."
We stand there in the dim light of the control room, two people who've spent years running in circles around each other, and I watch him make a choice.
"Fuck it," he breathes.
And then his mouth is on mine again. But this time, there's no hesitation. No pulling back. No apologies.
Just want.
Pure and undeniable and finally unleashed.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding up my back, cupping my face, learning the shape of me like he's been starving for it. And I'm matching him touch for touch, pulling at his shirt, needing to feel skin, needing more than fabric between us.
He lifts me effortlessly, and my legs wrap around his waist as he carries me toward the back room.
We're kissing the whole way—deep, desperate kisses that feel like reclaiming what we thought we'd lost. He lays me down on the sofa carefully despite the urgency thrumming through both of us, hovering over me with dark eyes and trembling hands.
"I've wanted this for so long," he confesses, and his voice is wrecked. "Wanted you for so long."
"Then have me," I whisper, pulling him down. "I'm right here. I'm yours."
And finally—finally—we stop fighting it.
His mouth traces down my neck, my collarbone, pushing aside the straps of my dress to access more skin. My hands explore the planes of his back, the muscles that flex under my touch, the heat radiating through his shirt that I need gone immediately.
I pull at the fabric, and he helps me, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside. And then his chest is bare. All hard muscle and ink and scars that tell stories from years of abuse—some covered by tattoos, others clear as day. My hands find his skin immediately, tracing the lines of ink, the ridges of muscle, the heat radiating off him.
"You're staring," he says, but there's heat in his voice.
"You're beautiful."
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan, and then his mouth is on mine again—rougher this time, more demanding. His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my dress higher, fingers digging into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make me gasp into his mouth.
"Off," he growls against my lips, tugging at the fabric. "Need this off. Now."
I help him, arching up so he can pull the dress over my head, and then I'm in nothing but my black lace lingerie and his eyes go almost blacker than the lace.
