The world didn't fall apart when they hit the bedroom.
It detonated.
Zane backed her through the doorway, their mouths fused in a kiss that tasted like fury and hunger and something far more dangerous. Willow's sweater ended up somewhere near the couch—she didn't remember pulling it off, only the desperate way her fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer, closer, like every second she didn't feel him was oxygen she couldn't breathe.
He lifted her—effortless, breathless—and her legs wrapped around his waist. The hallway wall caught her back. She gasped; he swallowed it with another kiss. His hands slid beneath her, gripping, anchoring, trembling.
Her fingers were in his hair, against his jaw, gripping his shoulders, pulling the fabric tighter each time he kissed her harder. His name broke from her lips—not a whisper, not permission.
A surrender.
"Zane—"
He groaned like she'd torn something open in him.
