Amara honestly had no idea how they ended up like this. And "this" wasn't even a normal kind of mess she could blame on clumsiness or spilled coffee. No, this was… this was something else entirely. A little stupid. And very, very hard to process.
Because somehow Darien was already half sitting up, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other cupping the back of her neck, pulling her down to him as if she were the only thing keeping him alive. Their mouths were still pressed together, still moving, still hungry.
Too hungry.
He tasted warm, surprisingly sweet, almost like heat baking under sun-soaked stone. Her breath hitched, he swallowed the sound before she could pull back. Not that she was truly trying. Her brain was, maybe. Her hands weren't. Her hands were traitors, curled against the front of his shirt as if afraid he'd vanish if she let go.
