Her legs trembled—actually trembled—and she grabbed the edge of the nearby counter like her body was short-circuiting. Her pupils were blown wide, lips parted, chest flushed and rising like she was already halfway to breaking.
"This is wrong," she breathed, but her eyes were fixed on my lips like she wanted to be ruined by them.
"Is it?" I whispered, letting my thumb graze along her cheekbone—slow and reverent, like I was studying the shape of a woman who forgot she was a masterpiece. "Or is it the first right thing that's happened to you in years?"
She blinked up at me, dazed. Her body was leaning into mine now, not just willing—desperate. Her hands, trembling, reached for my bare chest like she couldn't stop herself anymore. Her fingers grazed my skin, and I felt her nails press in—not to hurt, but to hold on. To something real. Something she hadn't felt in years.
