Fake Date, Real Fate

Isabella’s eyes flutter shut, the kiss growing more urgent, more desperate. She whimpers into my mouth, small, broken sounds that make me want to both protect her and consume her at the same time.

My hands roam over her back, possessive, rough, and almost bruising. I’m trying to hold back, I’m trying to remember that she’s vulnerable, that we’re in the middle of a damn helicopter, but it’s almost impossible.

I finally manage to rip my lips away from hers, even though my body protests the separation. My breathing is ragged, my pulse still racing.

I lean my forehead against hers, my eyes still closed as I fight for some semblance of control. My hands, still gripping her hips almost painfully tight, finally loosen their grip.

"We have to stop," I manage to grate out, my voice raw and hoarse. "We’re almost there. We can’t—"

Her body is still pressing against mine, still insistent and needy. She’s panting, her skin flushed with heat, and the sight of her like this is nearly my undoing.

My fingers dig into her hips again, my body taut as a bowstring. "Sweet Jesus," I mutter, my eyes clenching shut. "Isabella, please. We need to slow down."

Despite my words, my hands rove over her body with a mind of their own. I trace the contour of her breast, the curve of her hip, as if trying to sear her shape into my fingertips.

My mouth finds her neck, and I nuzzle the soft skin there, breathing in her scent. It’s both familiar and intoxicating, a heady mix that only fuels the fire within me, makes me want to drown in her completely.

"You’re so goddamn difficult to resist," I say, my voice rough against her neck.