𝐂𝐘𝐑𝐔𝐒
She stopped inches from him, close enough that her nipples brushed the fabric of his shirt. Her hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped his scarred cheek. Her thumb found his lower lip and dragged across it, leaving a trail of moisture.
Kaleb didn't move or push her away. His eyes, vivid violets, searched her face with an intensity that mirrored the desire that lit me from the inside out.
"Stop this now," he said, his voice low, controlled but with a crack in it—a fracture that betrayed him. "You're not in control."
She caught his hand. And with the same trembling, deliberate motion, she placed his palm over her breast. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then Kaleb's fingers curled. He squeezed.
Her back arched, a silent moan parting her lips, her head falling back to expose the column of her throat. The motion was pure instinct, pure surrender, and yet there was something victorious in the curve of her spine.
Kaleb's composure shattered.
