It wasn't a kiss of passion or lust—it was a fucking worship, a soft, reverent press of her mouth against mine that tasted like salt from her tears and the ghost of that expensive wine, like a benediction, a sealing of some sacred pact she was making with herself more than with me.
Her hands framed my face, fingers tangling in my hair not to pull me closer but just to hold on, to anchor herself to this moment of absolution like she was drowning and I was the lifeline.
This wasn't about taking; it was about giving. She was giving me everything she had left, emptying herself out onto the floor of this office she couldn't actually afford, and Jesus Christ, I could feel it—the weight of it, the cost of it.
My hands moved from her knees to her waist, fingers splaying across her back, pulling her infinitesimally closer—not to escalate, but to deepen, to offer my own unspoken acceptance, this quiet yeah, okay, I see you that seemed to matter more than any words I could've said.
