Daniel’s mouth crashed onto hers, and the world narrowed to the taste of woodsmoke and salt, the desperate, starving pressure of his lips. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a collision, the final, splintering release of every coiled tension that had held him rigid for years. Elara met it with a sharp gasp that he swallowed, her fingers plunging into his hair, nails scraping his scalp as she pulled him closer, closer, until there was no air between them. The chair creaked in protest as he surged forward, his hands finding her waist, dragging her from her kneeling position onto his lap in one rough, urgent motion.
She straddled him, the worn denim of her jeans a harsh friction against the aching hardness straining behind his fly. He groaned into her mouth, the sound raw and unbidden, and her hips rolled against him in a slow, deliberate grind that made his vision blur. Her sweater was a frustrating barrier. He gripped the hem, his calloused fingers sliding beneath the soft wool to find the hot, smooth skin of her back. She arched into his touch, breaking the kiss to drag her lips along his stubbled jaw, her breath a ragged whisper against his ear. “Daniel.”
His name, spoken like that—a plea and a command—unraveled the last of his control. He found the clasp of her bra with a fireman’s practiced efficiency, flicked it open, and filled his hands with her. She was perfect, a weight that made his throat tight, her nipples pebbling against his palms. A shudder wracked her frame, and she buried her face in the hollow of his throat, her teeth grazing his skin. “I feel it,” she breathed, her voice thick. “The fire in you. Let it burn.”
He did. He kissed her again, deeper, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as he rocked her against the solid evidence of his need. Every rational thought—the grief, the isolation, the chief, the stranger—burned away in the pure, animal truth of this. Her hands were everywhere, tugging his flannel shirt from his shoulders, mapping the scars and muscle of his chest with a reverence that felt like absolution. When her palm slid down his stomach, lower, and cupped him through his jeans, he tore his mouth from hers, his forehead dropping to her shoulder with a choked curse.
Her fingers worked the button of his fly, the zipper’s rasp loud in the quiet room. He could feel the damp heat of her through their clothes, an intoxicating promise. She stilled, her hand a breath away from where he needed it most. “Look at me,” she whispered.
He forced his eyes open. Her storm-grey gaze was dark, dilated, utterly focused. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her cheeks flushed. In her eyes, he saw no pity, no hesitation—only a reflection of his own desperate hunger, and a question. The threshold hovered between them, charged and silent. Her fingertips brushed the exposed waistband of his briefs, and his entire body went taut, waiting.