I knew the feeling.

I’d never felt this way about anyone—and I wasn’t yet sure exactly how I felt about Hannah. All I knew was that I was crazy attracted to her, that she made me laugh, and that I was more intrigued by her than I ever had been about anyone.

I could kiss her forever if she’d let me.

I wanted to kiss her forever.

It was better than the alternative; that she would realize what I was doing and punch me in the nose.

I crept my hand up her thigh as I kissed her deeply, moving my tongue against hers. A tiny moan left her mouth when my thumb brushed closed to her pussy. My cock hardened even more in my jeans. It was already throbbing, pressing firm against my jeans in an attempt to escape.

I wanted to let it out.

I wanted to strip that fucking dress off her, rip off my own clothes, and make good on all the things we’d discussed in those texts.

Flip her on her knees.

Pull her hair.

Grip her hips and fuck her until she screamed.

My whole body was thumping with desire. I couldn’t control this if I wanted to. The need to kiss her, to touch her, to fuck her, was all-consuming—desperate, almost.

I fucking wanted her. Badly. So bloody badly I could barely stand it.

Hannah whimpered into my mouth, nipping at my lower lip. I groaned, tightening my grip on her hair. The longer this lasted, the harder it was to keep control, to not go too far.

I didn’t know if I could take it much longer.

“Ahhh!” Hannah screamed and shoved at me.

My arms gave out, making me fall before I could push away from her. “What?” I jolted back from her as soon as I possibly could, forcing myself up to sitting.

“That fucking kitten!” she hissed, sitting up and clasping at her ankle.

I stared at her. “He bit your ankle?”

“Bit my ankle? Bit my ankle? He just took my damn ankle off my leg!” She clutched it tightly and raised it onto the sofa, then slowly peeled her hands away.

She was bleeding like a bitch.

“This is why he’s not my kitten!” she ground out, moving to sit up.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” I held my hands out to stop her moving. “I got this.”

“Drawer next to the fridge.”

I walked into the kitchen and opened the drawer. There was a mini first aid kit in there, and I unzipped it to find a flattened box of plasters—or Band-Aids as they called them here.

I carried it into the living room where Hannah was still sitting and mumbling curses to herself on the sofa. Blood was trickling down her foot, and I got there in time to pick up her leg before the blood dripped onto the sofa.

“It was about to drip onto the sofa,” I said softly and set the kit between us. There was a small packet of wipes, so I pulled one out, ripped the packaging open, and pulled out the wipe. Hannah hissed when I touched it to the tiny wounds, but I was able to clean her up with relative ease.