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I kiss her.

It’s not gentle, not even close. It’s every angry word, every unsent message, every night spent picturing this and refusing to admit it. Her lips are hot and hungry, opening under mine, and she tastes like salt and sugar and all my dreams wrapped up in one package. Too bad it took me nearly losing her to figure my shit out. Her hands fist in my shirt, knuckles digging into my chest, pulling me closer.

We stagger into the nearest wall, slamming a picture frame sideways, but neither of us cares. I bury my hands in her hair and kiss her like I’m starving, like I’ve never tasted anything real before now. She moans, low and desperate, and the sound sets fire to every cell in my body.

She bites my lip, hard, and I laugh against her mouth, half-mad with relief and want. I’ve never felt more alive, or more completely out of control.

We break apart, both of us panting, foreheads pressed together, hands locked tight around each other like we’ll drown if we let go.

“I hate you,” she says, but her voice shakes and her eyes are shining.

I smile, the first honest one in years. “Liar.”

She shoves me, but it’s a joke, a prelude, a challenge. I catch her wrist, drag her back against me, and this time, the kiss is slower, deeper, every old wound and empty space filling up with her.

I lose all sense of time. The world narrows to the taste of her mouth, the heat of her body, the tremor in her voice when she whispers my name. I drag her closer, desperate to taste every inch, but Dee’s palm lands flat on my chest.

“Wait,” she pants, eyes wild and pupils blown, but her grip is solid enough to pin me to the floor. The edge of her voice vibrates straight through my fucking bones. “We need to talk about this,” she breathes out, trembling. “But not with you drunk off your ass.”

She presses her forehead to mine, soft but unyielding. Every cell in my body riots. I want to rip my shirt off and slam her against the wall, but her stubbornness holds me in place.

“You can crash on my sofa.” She points to the small torture device that pretends to be a couch. “Once you get past your hangover, we’ll talk.”

She’s right about one thing—I need all my wits wide awake, sharp, and not dulled by liquor. Tomorrow morning, Ms. Deirdre Quinn isn’t going to know what hit her.