Page 123 of Celestial Combat

“We shouldn’t,” Zane breathed, voice low and hoarse, forehead pressed against mine like he needed the contact but hated himself for it.

The world stilled. My heart was still galloping. My hands were still fisted in his shirt, like if I let go, I’d fall straight through the cracks in the sidewalk.

“You’re right,” I whispered, though the words burned on the way out.

We were standing too close, too wrapped up in the heat and the night and each other.

We looked at each other.

One.

Two.

Approximately three seconds passed.

His mouth was on mine again.

Harder. Deeper. Like he was punishing himself for needing me this much. Like this was the only way to breathe.

My back slammed against the car again with the force of it. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging in like he was anchoring himself. My hands slipped up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, tilting my chin to give him more. More of me. All of me.

His mouth opened, parting my own lips, and I moaned when he swiped his tongue against mine.

He kissed me – hard, deep, hungry – like he only had mere seconds left of his life and I was the last breath he wanted to take.

My heartbeat dropped like a weight between my thighs, a needy moan escaping my throat. A tortured groan left Zane’s chest in return and when he gripped my waist harder, my own hands dropped, settling on the sides of his body. I dug my nails into him, feeling the sheer muscles and power within him.

This kiss wasn’t sweet like the first.

It was molten.

Desperate.

Addictive.

Zane kissed like someone who didn’t believe in tomorrows. And in that moment, neither did I.

The lights of the city flickered at the end of the alley. Sirens echoed in the distance. Spilled gasoline sparkled on the sidewalk.

But all I could feel was him.

The fire in my chest.

The ache in my throat.

The silent, terrifying thought that I’d never want another man to touch me again.

Zane tore himself away from me again, like the heat between us was venomous and fatal.

He turned, running a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling in a way that made it impossible to tell whether he wanted to scream or kiss me again. Maybe both.

“Fuck,” He muttered under his breath, then turned back to me; eyes dark, jaw tight, cheekbones flushed. “We can’t. Your family would kill me.”

“They wouldn’t–” I started, but the look he gave me cut straight through my sentence. I paused. Exhaled. “Okay… Maybe.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, like he almost wanted to laugh at the sheer truth of it. But his face stayed hard.

He stepped toward me again, his movements slower now, like something heavy was dragging behind every limb. He reached past me – his scent still clinging to my skin – and opened the back door of the SUV with a heavy click.

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