Isabella's eyes flutter shut, the kiss growing more urgent, more desperate. She whimpers into my mouth, small, broken sounds that make me want to both protect her and consume her at the same time.
My hands roam over her back, possessive, rough, and almost bruising. I'm trying to hold back, I'm trying to remember that she's vulnerable, that we're in the middle of a damn helicopter, but it's almost impossible.
I finally manage to rip my lips away from hers, even though my body protests the separation. My breathing is ragged, my pulse still racing.
I lean my forehead against hers, my eyes still closed as I fight for some semblance of control. My hands, still gripping her hips almost painfully tight, finally loosen their grip.
"We have to stop," I manage to grate out, my voice raw and hoarse. "We're almost there. We can't—"
