His lips are like fire, spicy and dangerous, yet flooding everything in warmth, a soft glow.
And she's falling so hard she has to clutch his shoulders for support.
And she hates, most of all, how right it all feels, like she's supposed to be digging her hand through his hair, pulling him closer.
Like they're lovers. Which makes her pull away.
She doesn't know what they are, but they are most definitely not lovers.
"I'm sorry," he says.
She doesn't respond to that. She's not sorry it happened.
Hell, it was the best thing to happened to her here.
