Page 26 of The Break Down

All of him.

One big, unrelenting wall of heat and muscle and purpose pressing into me.

His mouth crashes down on mine and he moans like he’s been starving for it,for me, and he’s finally allowed a taste.

There’s no hesitation.

No slow build.

No teasing.

Just a kiss that feels like a claim.

A brutal, beautiful breaking point.

His lips are rough and hot, his tongue demanding as it sweeps into my mouth, and I meet him with equal force.

Wild, reckless, hungry.

Because God help me, I’m starving, too. For him. Only him.

Something about this man, this towering, tattooed, scowling wall of intensity, lights me up like nothing and no one ever has.

Like I was built for this exact moment.

Maybe even built just for him.

His hands are everywhere, rough palms skimming beneath my thin tank top, dragging over the swell of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips like he’s trying to memorize me.

Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t touch all of me at once.

And I am so here for it.

He palms my ass with both hands and pulls me tight against him, letting me feel exactly what I do to him, hard, thick, and pressed so perfectly against me it steals my breath.

A gasp escapes me, but he swallows it in another punishing kiss, like he can’t get close enough.

Like kissing me is the only thing keeping him alive.

And I can’t stop touching him either.

My fingers glide over the ridges of his abs, up his chest, down his arms—everywhere.

He’s pure muscle, taut and trembling beneath my hands, like he’s barely holding himself back.

I trace the edge of a tattoo on his bicep with one fingertip, wishing we were somewhere with light.

Somewhere I could see all of him. Ask what each design means. Learn his story, ink by ink, breath by breath.

But that thought’s too soft. Too hopeful.

And whatever this is, it can’t be mistaken for a declaration.

I’m not that naïve.

No, this is heat and friction.

Lust and tension finally snapping like a live wire.

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