He brushes my hair back from my face, fingers lingering at the nape of my neck. Then, with maddening slowness, he dips his head, lips ghosting just beside mine without closing the distance.

“You’re playing with fire,” he says against my mouth.

“Then burn me.”

And then he kisses me. But it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s possession.

It’s every promise, every prayer, every plea poured into one searing, consuming kiss.

His mouth crashes over mine, and I melt into it, gasping against the sudden heat of him. His hands find my hips, gripping tight, pulling me flush against his body like he needs me there to breathe.

I wind my arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine with a hunger that makes my knees go weak.

When he walks us backward toward the bed, I go—no resistance, no hesitation, just the pounding of my heart and sensation of his body pressed to mine.

His mouth moves lower, skimming along my jaw, tracing fire across my throat. I tilt my head to give him more, every inch of me aching for his touch.

My hands tug his shirt free from his waistband, already desperate to feel him—skin to skin.

And he lets me.

He groans low in his throat. “God, you undo me.”

“I’m trying to undo you. But these damn buttons. Where do you buy your shirts? Frustrate-the-fuck-out-of-her-with-difficult-buttons-dot-com?”

He grins, lazy and smug, eyes dark with heat.

“Tailor-made to drive you insane. Buttons are foreplay, babe.”

“Yeah? Well, foreplay’s taking too damn long.”

My fingers fumble once more—twice—and I’ve had enough. I grab both sides of his shirt and rip it open, buttons popping and bouncing across the floor like confetti.

He blinks, then laughs low and full of heat. “Fuck, that was hot.”

I meet his gaze, breathless. “Damn right it was.”

Tonight isn’t about perfection. It’s about need.

I push his shirt off his shoulders, revealing the ink I already know by heart—except now there’s more. My eyes drift to the new lines, the fresh tattoo over his heart.

I trace the edges with my finger. “This is for me.”

His hand covers mine. “Not for you. It is you.”

I press a kiss against the tattoo. “Mine.”

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re unreal.”

I slide my nails down his chest as I push his shirt off. “Bet you say that to all the women who drop everything to be your nurse.”

He grins, but there’s heat behind it. “Only the one I’m still falling for every… damn… day.”

For all the teasing and the heat crackling between us—it’s that quiet, gruff confession that cuts right through me.

Still falling for me.

Every… damn… day.