The door to her apartment exploded open under our combined weight, hinges groaning like they knew what was coming.
We stormed through like a hurricane made of raw need—bodies slamming together, mouths devouring, tongues warring, hands clawing like we were trying to rip each other apart just to get closer.
She tasted like smoky whiskey laced with raw honey and pure fucking sin. Her back crashed into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed photos, and she let out this broken gasp straight into my mouth, her thigh snapping up to lock around my waist, grinding her heat against the ridge in my jeans like she was already trying to ride me through the denim.
The instant my palms hit her bare shoulders—skin finally on skin (no barriers, no excuses)—it hit us both.
A violent, electric snap. Like a circuit closing. Like every cell in her body just got hijacked and reprogrammed to one single setting: mine.
