One step. Two. And I’m in his arms, hauled against his chest with a force that steals my breath.
His mouth crashes down on mine—hot, hungry, claiming.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s weeks of want. Of regret. Of everything we didn’t say. His hands grip my waist, fingers digging in like he’s making sure I’m real.
I kiss him back just as hard.
Around us, the gala swirls—clinking glasses, muted laughter, a string quartet playing something delicate and expensive.
But I only feel him—solid and steady and finally mine.
* * *