Chapter 5 Bathroom Encounters And Bad Decisions #3
His expression shifts. Recognition flickers in those dark eyes—he knows me too, or at least he remembers me from the self-defense class.
But there's something else there. Something hungry.
Something that has absolutely nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way his gaze tracks down my body and back up again, lingering on the exposed skin of my back, the curve of my neck, the rise and fall of my chest as I struggle to breathe normally.
He looks at me like he wants to devour me. And God help me, I think I want to let him.
"Are you good with acting?" he asks.
His voice is deep. Deeper than I remember from the class, rougher around the edges, like he's been running or fighting or doing something that's left him slightly breathless.
The question makes no sense and perfect sense all at once—I don't know what he's planning, but something in my gut tells me to trust him.
To go along with whatever game he's about to play.
This is probably a terrible idea. This is probably the worst decision I've made all week, and I've made some spectacularly bad decisions.
Do it anyway.
A smirk tugs at my lips—real this time, not the practiced indifference I've been wielding like a weapon all evening. "Try me."
He moves.
It happens so fast I barely have time to register the motion before he's on me.
One moment there's space between us—air and possibility and the kind of tension that crackles like electricity—and the next his arm is around my throat.
A chokehold. Not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to actually restrict my breathing, but firm enough that I know I couldn't break free if I tried.
Control. This is control. Restrained power. The same deliberate precision I remember from the self-defense class, except now it's being used to hold me in place rather than teach me to escape.
My back is against his chest. I can feel every inch of him—the hard planes of muscle, the heat radiating through his suit, the steady thump of his heartbeat against my shoulder blade. His scent surrounds me completely now, smoked leather and woods and saffron wrapping around me like a second skin.
And before I can think—before I can process or plan or do anything remotely sensible—his free hand cups my jaw, tilts my head back, and his mouth crashes down onto mine.
The kiss is—
Oh.
Oh God.
The kiss is perfect. Electrifying. The kind of first kiss that ruins you for all other first kisses, because nothing will ever compare to this specific moment.
His lips are firm but not harsh, demanding but not taking—he's kissing me like he's asking a question and already knows the answer, like he's been thinking about doing this since the moment we made eye contact.
My brain short-circuits. Completely. All the careful walls I've built, all the armor I've been wearing, all the ice queen bullshit I've been projecting—it all dissolves like sugar in hot water.
There's nothing left but sensation: the pressure of his mouth, the taste of him (whiskey and something sweet), the way his grip on my jaw is possessive and gentle at the same time.
I should push him away. I should use the self-defense techniques he literally taught me to break this hold and demand an explanation. I should be furious that he's touched me without explicit permission, that he's trapped me against him like I'm something to be claimed.
Instead, I melt.
My body goes soft against his, pliant, surrendering to the kiss in a way I've never surrendered to anyone.
A small sound escapes me—something between a gasp and a moan—and I feel his arm tighten around my throat in response.
Not restricting. Claiming. Like my reaction pleases him, like he wants to pull more of those sounds from my lips.
The kiss deepens. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him without hesitation, letting him in, letting him take.
He tastes like expensive whiskey and dark chocolate and something uniquely him that I want to memorize.
My hands—useless, trembling things that they are—find his forearm where it crosses my chest and hold on like he's the only thing keeping me from floating away.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane. I'm being kissed senseless in a bathroom by a man I barely know, at an event I didn't want to attend, wearing a knife strapped to my thigh that I've completely forgotten exists.
And I don't want it to stop.
I've been kissed before. By Alphas who thought they owned me, by men who saw me as a commodity, by dates who were technically skilled but left me feeling nothing. I've been kissed in ways that were meant to dominate, to claim, to prove a point rather than share a moment.
This is different.
This is being ravished by someone who's paying attention.
Someone who adjusts the pressure of his mouth when I gasp, who changes the angle when I lean into him, who kisses me like he's memorizing every response for future reference.
It's overwhelming and perfect and absolutely devastating in ways I wasn't prepared for.
This is the first Alpha I've truly enjoyed being ravished by.