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Or better.

Definitely better.

His other hand settles at my waist, warm even through the fabric of my tank, and when his fingers tighten, I press closer without thinking. Every bit of irritation I’ve carried around for the last few weeks seems to turn into something else.

Hotter.

Sharper.

Hungry.

His mouth moves from mine to my jaw, and I suck in a breath when his teeth graze lightly against the skin below my ear.

“Inside,” I say.

He lifts his head.

“Yours or mine?”

“Closest.”

Mine wins by about three feet.

I get the door open without letting go of him for long, and he follows me inside. The second the door shuts, I’m against it with Zander in front of me, one hand braced beside my head while he kisses me again.

There’s no slow build.

No careful exploration.

We already did the buildup through a wall, across a tattoo table, and in every argument we’ve had since he moved in.

His hands slide down my sides and settle on my hips. I push my fingers into his hair and tug just enough to get another rough sound out of him.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t.”

“Ruby.”

“I said I don’t.”

His mouth curves. “Just making sure.”

I pull him back to me. “You talk too much.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

I kiss him before he can say anything else.

We stumble away from the door with no real plan beyond getting closer. My hip catches the edge of the console table, and Zander catches me around the waist before I can knock anything over.

“Careful.”

“I’m fine.”

His hand stays at my waist as he pulls me back against him. “Yes, you are.”

I barely have time to register the change in his voice before his mouth is on mine again.