He doesn't move.
For one eternal, humiliating second, Zack stands frozen against my lips—a statue of restraint while I combust with mortification.
I've made a terrible mistake. I've ruined everything. I should pull away, apologize, flee to my room and never—
His hand fists in my hair.
The kiss transforms, and my desperate gamble becomes his conquest, his mouth slanting over mine with a hunger that steals every thought from my head.
He kisses nothing like his son—no tenderness, no patience, just raw, devastating want that pours into me like wildfire.
I gasp, and he swallows the sound.
His tongue sweeps past my lips, claiming what I offered, and my knees threaten to give out. His other hand finds my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, pulling me flush against him until there's no space left between us.
This. The word blazes through me. This is what I've been starving for.
He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall. Then his body covers mine—all hard muscle and barely leashed power—and the evidence of his arousal presses against my stomach.
A moan escapes me, desperate and needy, and I feel the answering groan rumble through his chest.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing down my jaw, my neck, teeth scraping my pulse point hard enough to sting. My head falls back against the wall, offering him more access, more skin, more of whatever he wants to take.
His lips find the hollow of my throat, tongue tracing the dip between my collarbones, and I feel the groan vibrate against my skin before I hear it.
"Fuck." The curse rasps against my throat. His hands are everywhere—sliding up my sides, grazing the curve of my breast, fisting in my hair to tilt my head back further. "We shouldn't—I can't—"
I answer by pulling his mouth back to mine.
He groans into the kiss, and I feel the last thread of his control snap. His hands grip my thighs, lifting me, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
The new position presses him directly against my center, and the friction drags sounds from both of us that I'll be embarrassed about tomorrow.
He rolls his hips, and the pressure against my core makes my entire body shudder. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of his shirt, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
"Again," I breathe against his mouth, not recognizing my own voice. "Do that again."
He obeys, harder this time. The wall behind me is the only thing keeping me upright as sensation floods through me—wave after wave of heat and pressure and desperate, aching need.
Tomorrow doesn't exist right now. There's only this—his mouth devouring mine, his hips rolling against me in a rhythm that makes my vision blur, his hands gripping my ass hard enough to leave marks I'll feel for days.
He tears his mouth from mine, breathing hard, and drops his forehead to my shoulder. I can feel him trembling—this powerful, controlled man, shaking apart in my arms.
"Have you ever—" His voice breaks. He tries again. "Has anyone ever touched you like this?"
I shake my head, unable to form words.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gray eyes nearly black. Something shifts in his expression—hunger warring with something softer.
"No one," I manage. "Never."
A sound escapes him—low and possessive and almost feral.
"Good." The word comes out like gravel. "Good."
His hand slides beneath my shirt, palm searing against my bare skin. I stop breathing.
Oh, my God.
His fingers trace upward, reverent and exploratory, mapping the curve of my ribcage, the dip of my waist, the place where my bra meets skin.
"Jesus fucking Christ." The words come out strangled. "Ellie, tell me you don't want this."
I answer by taking his hand and guiding it higher.
His breath catches. His fingers brush the underside of my breast, feather-light, questioning. When I don't pull away, he cups me fully, and the sensation makes my back arch off the wall.
My head falls back, a moan escaping that I couldn't contain if I tried. He squeezes gently, learning the shape of me.
"God." He buries his face in my neck, breathing hard. "You're so—I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't want you."
His thumb drags across my nipple through the thin fabric, and the sound that escapes me is almost embarrassing. But I'm too far gone to care.
He rolls the hardened peak between his fingers, and my hips jerk against him involuntarily. The friction sends sparks cascading through my nerve endings, building toward something I've never felt before.
His mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper. He kisses me like he knows this can't last and wants to catalog every second.
His hips rock against mine, and I feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, and the feeling is more intoxicating than anything I've ever felt.
"Ellie." His breath shudders against my skin.
His hand slides down my stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of my jeans, hovering at the edge of a line we haven't crossed yet.
I hold my breath. My body screams for him to keep going, to push past that final barrier, to give me relief from this unbearable ache.
But his hand stills, trembles, and retreats.
"We have to stop," he rasps.
"I know," I breathe out.
Neither of us moves.
His hands tremble where they grip my thighs. Mine shake where they're fisted in his shirt.
We're both breathing like we've run miles, both burning, both teetering on an edge we know we shouldn't cross.
His forehead drops to mine. We share the same ragged air, the same trembling restraint, the same knowledge that whatever this is between us has already gone too far to pretend it never happened.
"You're going to hate me for this." The words ghost across my lips. "When the sun comes up and you realize what we've done—you're going to hate me."
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
"Then give me something worth hating you for."
He makes a sound—half groan, half sob—and his grip on me tightens. For one suspended moment, I think he's going to carry me upstairs, finish what we started, damn the consequences.
But he sets me down.
The cold rushes in to fill the space where his body was, and I shiver violently, my legs barely holding me upright.
He steps back, runs a shaking hand through his hair, and I watch him struggle for composure—watch him rebuild the walls I tore down, brick by careful brick.
"Go to your room, Ellie."
This time, it's a plea.
I nod, not trusting my voice. My legs feel like water as I move toward the door, every step carrying me farther from him and closer to the reality of what we've done.
My hand is on the doorknob when his voice stops me.
"This doesn't change anything." The words sound hollow. "Tomorrow, we pretend this never happened."
I look back at him. His shirt is untucked, his hair wild from my fingers, his lips swollen from my mouth. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful.
"If that's what you want," I say softly.
His eyes meet mine, and the hunger there tells me everything his words won't.
"It's not about what I want. It's about what's right."
I slip through the door and close it behind me.
But as I climb the stairs to my room, my lips still swollen and my body still burning, I know one thing with absolute certainty.
Neither of us is going to be able to pretend.
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