Page 112 of Knot Their Arrangement

Before I can process the movement, Rhett's lips press against mine with decisive purpose. The surprise of the contact makes me gasp, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to share the water he holds in his mouth – water that carries the slightly bitter taste of medication.

The method of delivery is so unexpected, so intimate, that I find myself responding instinctively.

His mouth guides mine with practiced patience, ensuring I swallow every drop before the kiss transforms into something softer, sweeter. His lips move against mine with careful deliberation, as if he's relearning territory he once knew by heart.

That dark chocolate and black cherry scent envelops me completely, making my head spin in ways that have nothing to do with my injuries.

The mint undertone seems sharper now, more pronounced with our proximity, while that raw sugar note makes me want to chase the taste of him beneath the lingering medicine.

When he finally pulls back, it's just enough to study my expression. Those emerald eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, looking for something I can't quite name. His thumb strokes along my jawline, the touch sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with temperature.

"Figured if I didn't get you to take your meds, you'd get lost in your thoughts for all eternity." His voice carries that same richness I remember, but there's something new in it now – a depth of understanding that comes only from experiencing both beauty and pain.

He makes the concept of eternal contemplation sound like a dream worth having, an escape into wonder rather than a retreat from reality.

A small smirk tugs at my lips as I meet his gaze. The medication must be extraordinarily fast-acting, because my headache has already begun to recede, replaced by a pleasant warmth that spreads through my entire body.

Or maybe that's just his proximity, the heat that radiates from him like a banked fire waiting to ignite.

"Can we do that again?" The words slip out before I can overthink them, carrying all the hope and desire I've suppressed for years.

His answering grin is pure sin – that perfect mixture of boyish charm and predatory intent that I remember from our shared past.

With deliberate slowness, he sets the water glass on the nightstand, the movement drawing my attention to the corded muscles in his arm, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders.

Then his hand is back on my face, tilting my chin up as he claims my mouth once more. This kiss holds nothing of medication or practicality – it's pure passion, unleashed with devastating precision. His lips move against mine like he's composing a symphony, each touch building on the last until I'm drowning in sensation.

My core clenches with need as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I eagerly grant. The taste of him floods my senses – dark chocolate and mint dancing on my tongue as he deepens the kiss with expert skill. His other hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling in the strands to hold me exactly where he wants me.

This isn't the rushed passion of our teenage encounters, driven by the knowledge that we had limited time. We don’t need to rush in the slightest. The world’s problems and chaos can wait.

He kisses me like he has all the time in the world to take me apart, like bringing me pleasure is a goal worth savoring rather than rushing toward.

The moan that escapes me seems to encourage him further. His grip tightens slightly in my hair, the slight sting only adding to the growing heat between my thighs. Each stroke of his tongue against mine sends fresh waves of arousal through my system, making my body sing with recognition and need.

That raw sugar note in his scent grows stronger, mixing with my own growing arousal to create something new and intoxicating. The combination makes my head spin in the best possible way, every inhale drawing his essence deeper into my lungs until I feel marked by it.

His kiss remains controlled but thorough, designed to make my toes curl and my core flood with slick. Each movement feels calculated to draw responses from me, to map out exactly what makes me gasp and whimper.

The precision of it all speaks to years of experience, but there's something else beneath the expertise – a hunger that matches my own, a need that transcends mere physical attraction.

This is recognition on the deepest level.

My Omega instincts purr with satisfaction, acknowledging what my conscious mind has tried to deny – that this connection between us was always meant to be more than a teenage rebellion.

That perhaps fate itself orchestrated our reunion, bringing us back together when we've both grown strong enough to claim what we truly want.

The kiss continues to build, each press of his lips, each stroke of his tongue driving me higher into a spiral of pure sensation. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness, every nerve ending lighting up like he's flipped some hidden switch inside me.

The heat between my legs becomes almost unbearable, slick gathering as my core clenches around nothing.

This is what kissing should feel like.

The thought floats through my pleasure-hazed mind with perfect clarity. Not the mechanical exchanges of arranged meetings, not the awkward fumbling of casual encounters. This – this perfect storm of passion and precision, of hunger and control, of past and present merging into something entirely new.

This is what romance novels try to capture but can never quite convey – the way a single kiss can rewrite your understanding of pleasure:can make everything that came before feel like pale imitation.The way your body can recognize its perfect match even before your mind catches up, how instinct can override logic until nothing exists except sensation and need.

His answering growl vibrates through me, the sound pure Alpha satisfaction as he reads my responses like a familiar book.

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