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"And you left."

"I wanted to hit him."

That startles her enough that I almost smile.

Instead she stares at me for one long second and says, very quietly, "You should have kissed me instead."

That's it.

That's the break.

I kiss her hard enough that she loses the next breath.

Her mouth opens under mine instantly, and whatever control I had left goes under with us. Three days of distance. Three days of discipline. Three days of telling myself that wanting her and keeping her safe were the same thing.

All of it collapses in the space between one breath and the next.

My hand fists in her hair. Hers catches at my jaw. My body pins hers to the wall, water rocking around us, my thigh forcing her legs apart just enough that she gasps into my mouth when she feels how hard I am against her.

She kisses me back just as hard.

Bites my lower lip.

Drags her nails over my shoulders like she wants to leave evidence.

My hand slides down her body—her ribs, her waist, her hip—and finds the wet edge of her underwear. I don't bother being careful. I press my fingers against her through the thin, soaked fabric and feel how swollen she already is. How hot. How ready.

My chest cracks wide.

Because this is real.

This isn't proximity or performance or a contractual obligation. This is her body responding to mine, and mine responding to hers, and three days of denial snapping at the weakest point.

My hand slips under the edge of her underwear. No barrier now. Just her—slick, swollen, clenching against nothing when my fingers slide through her folds. She's so wet it makes my head spin, and when I push two fingers inside her she makes a sound against my throat that I will hear for the rest of my life.

I work her with my hand while the water moves around us. Her hips rock against my fingers. Her thighs tighten around my waist. My thumb finds her clit and presses, circles, presses again. She's trembling now, forehead dropped against my shoulder, breath coming in sharp bursts I can feel against my collarbone.

My name comes out of her broken.

Like she doesn't want to be saying it and can't stop.

I curl my fingers inside her and she jerks hard, one hand fisting in my hair, the other gripping my shoulder like she needs something to anchor her to the world.

She comes with a shudder that rolls through her entire body. Her walls clamp tight around my fingers and she buries her face in my neck, gasping, nails digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks I'll feel tomorrow.

I hold her through it.

Don't pull my hand away until the last aftershock fades and her breathing starts to come back down.

Then I say, roughly, "Inside."

She blinks at me. Dazed and flushed. Pupils blown so wide her eyes look black.

I don't wait for a verbal answer.

I haul us out of the pool, her legs wrapping around my waist while I half carry, half drag her across the terrace. Water streams off both of us. My footing slips once on the wet tile and I catch us against the doorframe, her back hitting the wood, and for one second we just stay there—both breathing too hard, her legs locked around me, the night air cooling the water on our skin while everything between us burns.

Then I keep moving.