Before I can say never, he cuts me off with, “Because I think I’m about to fuck everything up between us.” And then he kisses me. His lips mold to mine and his fingers weave into my hair as his grip turns soft. I go still with shock—utter disbelief—and when I do, he stops, pulling away as his warm palm slides down over my throat to look me in the eye. “I’m sor—” I cut him off by launching myself back at him. And he doesn’t miss a fucking beat. He doesn’t kiss me like a friend. He kisses me back with equal fervor. He kisses me like he wants to consume me. And he does.
