I was drowning.
That was the only way to describe the sensation as Rhys's lips moved against mine, expert and demanding. The years between us seemed to collapse, my body remembering his touch like it was yesterday rather than four long years ago. Heat flooded through me, radiating from where our mouths connected and spreading like wildfire down my spine.
My hands, meant to push him away, instead clutched at his shirt. I could feel his heart thundering against my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. His scent—woodsy, masculine, and achingly familiar—enveloped me completely.
For one dangerous moment, I surrendered to it. To him. To us.
Then reality came crashing back.
"No," I mumbled against his lips, twisting my head away. "Stop it, Rhys."
He didn't listen. His mouth followed mine, reclaiming it with renewed hunger. One of his hands moved to cup my face, holding me steady as his tongue traced the seam of my lips, demanding entrance.
