If there was one thing about William Torres, it was that the man could kiss.
It wasn't just a physical act, it was a territorial claim.
He had a way of making your lips feel like they were being worshipped and disrespected all at the same time—an intoxicating contradiction that left me breathless every single time.
His lips always tasted cool, like flavored mints and expensive habits, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his skin. Every time he moved against me, it felt like the floor was tilting, the world outside the kitchen walls blurring into insignificance.
He didn't just kiss; he consumed, stripping away my layers of defense until there was nothing left but a dizzying, frantic need to be closer.
He pushed my back against the granite edge of the kitchen counter, the cold stone biting into my skin through my clothes—a sharp, grounding jolt that only made the fire in my veins burn hotter.
