The Art of Taking [+18]

"You gonna tell me your name?" he asked at last, his voice deep enough to crawl right under it.

I shook my head. "No."

Something in his expression sharpened-approval, maybe. "Good."

He didn't come to me right away. He took his time, pushing off the door with deliberate slowness, each step closing the distance in steady increments.

I didn't move. Couldn't.

My back found the wall before he'd even touched me. He stopped just short-close enough for the heat of him to seep through the small space between us.

His scent hit me first-smoke, whiskey, and something clean that didn't fit the chaos of the party outside.

His head tilted slightly, studying my mouth, then my eyes, then my mouth again.

His hand lifted-not to grab, not yet. Just to trace.
The backs of his fingers skimmed my jaw, slow enough that I could feel every millimeter of skin they passed over. They trailed down the side of my neck, pausing in the hollow of my throat, not pressing-just resting there.

"You've got that look," he murmured.

"What look?" My voice was steadier than I felt.

"Like you want me to ruin you."

I should've laughed. Teased. Something.
Instead, I held his gaze. "Maybe I do."

The corner of his mouth twitched-not quite a smile, but something hungrier.

Still, he didn't touch me the way I wanted him to. Instead, his knuckles dragged down my collarbone, over the bare skin just above my dress, grazing the swell of my breast without claiming it.

"You sure you can handle forgetting?" he asked, his voice lower now, as if we weren't already breathing the same air.

"Try me," I said.

That broke something in him.

His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones, holding me still as his eyes searched mine like he was committing the color of them to memory.

Then-finally-he kissed me.