The taste of woodsmilk was faint, sweet, like the memory of the pine boards he’d been planing. His mouth was warm, careful. Lena’s hands, which had been clenched at her sides, unfurled. Her fingertips found the rough denim of his work shirt, just below his ribs.

He made a sound against her lips, low and approving. His hands at her waist tightened, pulling her an inch closer. Her back met the solid edge of his workbench.

“Marek,” she breathed into the kiss, a half-formed thought.

He swallowed the word. His thumb, the same calloused one that had traced her lip, now stroked the line of her jaw. It was a rasp of texture that made her shiver. Everything was texture. The soft wool of her sweater. The hard bench behind her. The firm press of his body, all heat and solid muscle, a wall between her and the rest of the quiet workshop.

His tongue touched the seam of her lips. A question.

She opened for him. The nervous sweetness vanished, replaced by something darker, more deliberate. The kiss deepened, turned slow and searching. He tasted like coffee and the winter air outside.

Her hands slid up his chest. She felt the powerful shift of his muscles under the fabric, the steady, strong beat of his heart. It wasn’t frantic like hers. It was a deep, patient drum.

One of his hands left her waist. It came up, his fingers threading back into her hair, cradling the base of her skull. He tilted her head, changing the angle, and the kiss went from sweet to devastating.

This wasn’t a boy’s kiss. This was a man’s. It had weight. Intent. It promised things she’d only half-dared to imagine in her bed at night.

A soft, helpless sound escaped her throat.

He broke the kiss, just far enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, the blue almost gone. His breathing was heavier now. He searched her face, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen bottom lip.

“Still okay?” His voice was rough.

She could only nod, her chest rising and falling. Her lips felt branded.

He didn’t smile. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, the word more air than sound. “It’s more than okay.”

That was all the permission he needed. He kissed her again, and this time there was no hesitation. It was hungry. Possessive. His other arm wrapped fully around her, locking her against him. The scent of him—sawdust, clean sweat, him—filled her lungs.

Her fingers curled into his shirt. She kissed him back, tentatively at first, then with a growing confidence that felt like coming awake. She let her tongue meet his. The shock of it, the intimacy, sparked a liquid heat low in her belly.

He groaned, the vibration passing from his chest into hers. He walked her backward, just two steps, until her shoulders met the cool, smooth surface of a tall storage cabinet. The kiss turned consuming. One of his knees nudged between her thighs, not insistently, but enough to make her gasp. The pressure was an electric shock straight to her core.

His mouth left hers, trailing fire down her jaw to her throat. He kissed the frantic pulse there. His stubble scraped her delicate skin, a delicious friction.

“You smell like sunshine,” he muttered against her neck, his breath hot. “Even in here.”

She arched into him, her head falling back against the cabinet with a soft thud. Her eyes closed. The world was reduced to his mouth on her skin, his hands on her body, the hard line of his thigh pressed where she was suddenly, acutely empty.

He lifted his head. His eyes were pure storm. He looked wrecked. “Lena.”

It wasn’t a question this time. It was a statement. A claiming.

He dipped his head and captured her mouth once more, and in that kiss, she felt the first seismic shift. The trembling in her hands wasn’t from nerves anymore. It was from need.