Unlike our first kiss—which was totally a kiss—the pressure of controlling it is taken away from me, and I’m able to enjoy it for what it is. The press of lips on lips. Soft and slow. Hard and fast. Slow and hard. Fast and soft. It’s an alternating explosion of sensations that hasn’t done anything to fill my curiosity and instead has exploded that curiosity into a million more tiny pieces. My brain isn’t big enough to hold all those pieces though. I barely have time to catch my thoughts as they bubble away into blissful nothingness. Nothing but his mouth and his hands on my shoulders, one of them scraping up the back of my neck to tangle in my hair and the other dipping lower, resting over my chest, thumb gently flicking over my nipple in a way that tugs an embarrassing nrgh from my throat.

He chuckles, lips smiling against mine before his tongue dips out to slide over my bottom lip. Without thinking, I suck it into my mouth.

St. Clare freezes, and then, with a bone-melting moan, his mouth crashes against mine. Deep and consuming, his kiss makes my toes curl over and my thumbs find that soft skin beside his hip bones as my grip on him anchors me to Earth. He holds me tighter, kisses me so deep that breathing becomes more of an optional thing. An optional thing that comes second to falling into the kiss and letting it destroy me.

My neck and cheeks are burning up, St. Clare’s grip on my hair tightening, reeling us closer like a fish caught helpless on a line, and when his cock nudges mine, my eyes roll back into my skull.

I’ve never been so willingly trapped before, and when St. Clare goes to back off, I grunt and pull him closer.

Through our underwear, our cocks line up. Dueling hardness seeking relief, which only gets worse as he ruts against me. His bare chest is hot through my shirt, and I wish that we were wearing one hundred percent fewer clothes, but the time it would take to remove them would be wasted. I don’t need to be naked to enjoy this, not when I already feel like I’m about to shoot off fucking fireworks.

I’m so blindingly out of control, and it’s almost an out-of-body experience. I urge him faster as he rocks against me, balls so damn tight I need relief, nipples driving me out of my mind every time my shirt rubs against them. Our kiss has turned sloppy, driven by pure need, and if this is the passion St. Clare was talking about, I’m happy to declare him fucking correct because our first kiss had none of this. Even though it was definitely, totally a kiss.