His hand was warm against her throat, and his thumb ran slowly along the scar below her jaw. She leaned closer, her hand sliding up from his chest to his shoulder to pull him forward and kiss him. It was not a slow, sweet kiss. It was not a kiss caused by alcohol or insecurity. It was born of rage, despair, and desire so hot, it threatened to burn her into oblivion. It was possibly a kiss goodbye. She wanted him to know. It was real. For her, it had always been real.
