Page 10 of When the Storm Breaks
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless.
He shifts even closer, bracing his forearm above me on the door. His other hand hangs at his side, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back. The space between us hums, and I struggle to take a full breath.
His gaze dips, tracing the slow rhythm of my chest, rising and falling with each breath. When his eyes meet mine again, something flashes through them. It’s quiet but laced with intent.
My eyes flutter closed as his fingertips graze my thigh—light, teasing, almost curious. The touch ignites a fire in me, and my heart kicks harder, betraying any effort to mask my response.
When I finally open my eyes, his mouth curves slightly. Not a smirk, but a knowing shift, like he feels it too.
“What did it taste like?” he whispers, his fingers drifting over me in slow, maddening strokes. “Describe it to me.”
I swallow. “I don’t know… soft. A little smoky. Kind of…” My voice falters. “Forbidden.”
His fingers trail higher, up my thigh, skimming the curve of my hip before settling into a firm grip at my waist. Daring me to deny what we both already know.
His head dips, mouth hovering only inches from mine. “Can I taste it?”
Before I can even process the question, his mouth crashes onto mine—fierce, taking, all heat and hunger. It’s a storm, pulling me under without warning. The rest of the world disappears, and in this moment, there’s only him. His hands. His mouth. His body pressed against mine.
He pushes in closer, grinding against me, and a soft moan slipsfrom my lips.
It’s something reckless. Something sinful.
He tastes like whiskey and mint, fire and ice. I’m swept up in it, lost in the way his lips move against mine, and I kiss him back like I might die if I don’t.
His hands slide up, framing my face, thumbs brushing softly over my cheekbones. He holds me there, like he’s not just kissing me, but keeping me.
I can’t stop myself from reaching for him. My hands start tentative, then grow bolder, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the heat of his skin bleeding through his shirt. He draws in a sharp breath when my fingers skim his collarbone, and a low, rough sound rumbles in his chest, sending a tremor through me.
I break the kiss, gasping for air. And that’s when I see it again—the tattoo.
I don’t mean to touch it. But my fingers move before I think, tracing the line like muscle memory I shouldn’t have.
And everything stops.
His body goes still, but his breath is broken, like he’s fighting just to stay afloat. He steps back slowly, and for a split second, something that looks a lot like pain flashes across his face.
His hands fall to his sides, fingers curling into fists like it’s the only thing keeping him together.
When he finally speaks, his voice is tense.
“You should go.”
I blink, frozen in place as confusion and humiliation crash into me. “I—”
Disappointment rolls off him in waves.The way he backs away, hands thrown up like he’s done trying, makes my throat tighten.
“Please,” he says, voice strained. Just one word, but it leaves no room.
I shrink beneath his stare, my face burning with shame. My body moves clumsily, stumbling over my own feet in my rush to leave.
Snatching my bag from the floor, fingers fumbling with the strap, I bolt from the office and rush down the hallway, barely registering the people I pass or the stares that follow. The bar blurs around me, a haze of noise and light, until I’m outside—the cold air hitting my face like a slap.
At the car, I throw the door open, drop into the seat, and slam it shut behind me. His scent is still there, thick in the air, clinging to my clothes and skin. It wraps around me and squeezes, aching like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
Even now, I can’t escape him.
I sit there for a moment, frozen, unsure if I can even drive. The alcohol should still be in my system, but all I feel is the sting of his rejection.
