The memory of the lab table dissolves into the taste of her. The flickering streetlamp light carves the planes of his face as his hand slides from her cheek to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her brown hair, pulling her in. His kiss isn’t gentle. It’s a collision—lips hard against hers, teeth a sharp threat behind them. He kisses like he’s drowning and she’s the only air left in the world, a desperate, claiming anchor. She tastes his rage, metallic and old, and beneath it, the profound, hollow loneliness of the steel cage.
Aria’s glasses dig into the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t pull away. Her hands, which had been placating on his chest moments ago, fist in the worn fabric of his shirt. She kisses him back. Not as his doctor. That title is ash in her mouth now. She kisses him as the woman who saw the boy in the monster’s eyes, and her body answers with a traitorous, slick heat that pools low in her stomach. Her breath hitches into his mouth, a surrendered sound.
Atlantic groans, a low, rough vibration she feels in her own bones. His other arm bands around her waist, crushing her against him. She can feel him—the hard, insistent line of his erection pressed against her thigh through their clothes. The evidence of his want is stark, undeniable. It should terrify her. It does. But it also sends a jolt of pure, electric awareness through her veins, a flush spreading across her skin.
He breaks the kiss, but only to drag his mouth along her jaw, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, the words a dark challenge. His hand leaves her hair, skims down her spine, coming to rest at the small of her back, pressing her even tighter against that hardness. “Say it, Doctor.”
She can’t. The word is gone. She turns her head, finds his lips again, and her answer is her tongue sliding against his, her hips arching into the pressure. His control splinters. A sound escapes him—part triumph, part agony. His hands move to her shoulders, pushing the fabric of her blouse down, and his mouth is on her collarbone, biting, sucking, marking. The world narrows to the scent of stale cigarettes, the flickering shadow-play on the wall, and the devastating skill of his mouth on her skin.
He walks her backward until her knees hit the edge of the torn velvet sofa. She falls onto it, pulling him down with her. He braces himself above her, his black eyes scanning her face—flushed, lips swollen, glasses askew. His thumb brushes the corner of her mouth. Then his hand slides down, over the frantic beat of her heart, over her ribs, stopping at the waistband of her trousers. His fingers hook there, just beneath the button. Waiting. His gaze locks on hers, a question and a verdict in one.