But the moment Sarani’s lips touched his, five years of buried memory descended upon him like a hurricane. Five years of wanting. Of raw, unmitigated need.

Rhystan’s hands wrapped around her, one at her nape and the other at her waist. They were greedy, too…desperate to remember the feel of her, the flare of her hip, the softness of her throat, the silken skeins of her inky hair. His fingers clutched and caressed, holding her close and desperate to take what she offered.

One kiss wouldn’t hurt.

And yet one kiss could wreck him unconscionably.

Because he didn’t want to just kiss her mouth, he wanted to kiss her everywhere. From the bend of her elbow, to the curve of her breast, to her stomach, her thighs, all of her.

Her teeth grazed his lower lip and sensation blasted through him, a groan rumbling in his chest. She tasted of heated spice, whisky, and pure lust. A part of him knew he should pull away, save himself from the destruction that would surely follow in the wake of this, but he couldn’t. When that sweet, bold tongue crept past his lips to touch his, Rhystan stopped fighting and gave in. For this kiss, he’d take his chances with ruin.

With certain devastation.

Angling her head, he opened his mouth on hers, eager to reconquer lost territory and take charge. Thrusting into her, sucking, nipping, and then soothing. Letting her know that all wasn’t forgiven. Reminding her that all wasn’t quite lost to memory. Not one to stand by idly, Sarani put her injured hands awkwardly around him, a ragged moan escaping her parted lips. He took; she gave. He came undone; she brought him back together.

Their kiss wasn’t gentle, but she submitted to his rough claim with equal hunger, willingly, receiving him as though he’d never left. Kissing him as though he’d never become a stranger. As if he weren’t the hated enemy. As though she were still his.

Moments, or an eternity, passed, and they stayed joined at the lips, sharing heartbeats and breath, reluctant to relinquish the connection. The kiss was less frantic now, light nudges and licks over bruised, swollen lips. Violence had given way to something tender, infinitely sweeter.

And exceedingly more dangerous.

Anger, Rhystan was familiar with. He’d honed it, held it close for years, let it pummel him and shape him into who he’d become. But this…this feeling of intimacy, of fragile undone yearning, shook him to the core. Threatened the hardened armor of who he was. And that he could not allow. Fuck. Fuck.

Struggling for control, he tore himself from her clasp.

“Rhys—” Her voice was thick, clogged with sated passion.

He clenched his jaw. “Don’t.”