It was amazing. Sure, Sylvia had been kissed before, once by a middle-aged man who fixed his sloppy, drunken lips on hers on his way out of the bar. Okay, maybe she'd only been kissed once. But regardless, this one was brilliant.

Their lips met, strong and fast. Where his lips touched hers, warmth and tingling spread through her body. Branching from her mouth and down to the pit of her stomach, resting between her legs, electrifying her. The smell of his cologne filled her nose, his face pressed against hers. She fit so perfectly against him. Her skin was hot and burning, dulled by the layers of fabric between them. His fingers crept up to the small of her back, splayed against her shirt. He tilted his head ever so slightly, deepening the kiss and making Sylvia groan into his mouth. She tore away from the kiss with a breathy gasp, her heart pounding wildly, her cheeks flushed.

"You sure are a good kisser," she said breathlessly.

"You're not bad yourself."

Faint jazz leaked through the walls of the old hotel as Sylvia eyed Kaz, who had stepped backwards with a grin. It was the first time she got a good front-on look at him. He looked so perfect. With his navy blue shirt that brought out his eyes so perfectly, and the simple black shorts. He looked strong, with his broad shoulders and toned arms. She couldn't help but wonder what he looked like without his shirt on.

"What sort of job do you do?" She asked instead. It was a genuine question, though. Her first thought would be Peacekeeper, but they didn't have looks as good as his.

He laughed. "You want me to take off my shirt?"

Sylvia's heart skipped a beat. How had he known? Maybe it's because she'd been staring at him for a while now. Her cheeks burned as she stammered, "W-well,"

"I was going to show you anyway," He grinned, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt before tugging it over his head in one smooth, practised motion, letting the fabric flop to the ground. Sylvia blinked, not quite expecting it — but damn.

His body was ridiculous. Broad shoulders, cut chest, the kind of torso that only existed in the old movies or Capitol posters advertising the brave soldiers who fought in the war. Not bulky, but lean, sculpted, someone who moved with purpose. His skin caught the light from the dull lamp just right, golden in some places, shadowed in others. There was a trail of hair leading from his stomach downward, and Sylvia had to look away—or at least try to.

A flush crept up her neck before she could stop it. She hated how easy it was to get flustered, how her breath caught for a second. Get a grip, she told herself. It's just a guy without a shirt. A stupidly hot guy without a shirt. Her eyes flicked back, unable to help it.

He was like the princes in the stories she had read — strong, handsome young heroes. She reached out slowly — almost involuntarily. She just wanted to touch him so bad. She was encouraged when he moved against her slender fingers. She traced them along his hard, toned flesh.

She felt like she should say something cool, but all her usual lines vanished. He knew what he was doing — that little smirk on his face said it all.

Still, even as her stomach did a small flip, there was a voice in the back of her head, soft but firm: What would her aunt think of her? She pushed the thought away. It was fine. Just a shirtless boy, nothing more. She deserved a bit of entertainment, didn't she?

"Your turn," he said lightly.

"What?" She said, snapping out of her daze.

"Take off your shirt," he said simply, then with an innocent smile, "I took off mine."

She scoffed. "Well, it's different! I'm a girl."

"Not it's not," he teased, moving closer. At her hesitation, he brushed his thumb against her wrist, "Come on, Sylvia, don't be afraid, it's only a shirt." Her heart fluttered when he said her name. It sounded so elegant, and pretty and just so right in his voice.

"I'm not afraid," she said indignantly, fingers curling around the hem of her shirt.

"I'll give you a kiss after," he whispered with a smile.

Slowly, she pulled the plain white shirt over her head. It wasn't like she was ashamed of her body or anything. She thought it was quite nice, in all honesty. Not fat, so that it looked like she had hoarded and was a spoiled brat during the aftermath of the war, but not scrawny that she looked malnourished — she was able to get decent food from the kitchen leftovers.

It's just a shirt, she told herself. Calm down. But her heart wouldn't listen. It beat fast, a warning or a thrill — maybe both.

She lifted the fabric slowly, peeling it over her head, and felt the cooler air kiss her bare stomach, her ribs, her chest, her shoulders. Her skin prickled. She kept her eyes on the dirty brown carpet for a moment before daring to look up.

Her breathing was shallow. She was suddenly hyper-aware of herself — the dip of her waist, the soft swell of her hips, the flat of her stomach. Her chest rose and fell with every breath, the edge of her black lace bra barely containing the shape of her body.

She wasn't model-perfect — she knew that. But she also knew the way men looked at her. And right now, she could definitely feel him looking. Slowly, she lifted her eyes.

Kaz's expression had shifted. Not cartoonish or gawking — no wide eyes or knowing smiles. Just… focused. Intent. His mouth parted slightly, the smirk gone, replaced with something quieter.

Hungrier.

His expression was still, watchful, eyes tracing her figure with a kind of reverence that made her cheeks warm. Her body tensed instinctively under the scrutiny. He was still staring, not just at her chest, but at her. Somehow, that was worse. Better. More intense. Like he wasn't just looking at what she was showing him, but at everything underneath it, too.

A weird cocktail of power and vulnerability rose in her throat. For a split second, she wondered if this was what it felt like to be wanted, really wanted and loved, not just tipped or flirted with or complimented in passing.

Her heart beat even faster.

"You're beautiful," he said, stepping forward, gently pressing his body against hers. Their naked skin burned at the touch, and a sheen of sweat broke out. He gently tilted Sylvia's head up and fulfilled his promise.

The kiss was all teeth and lips and clever tongue – messy and hungry and even more intoxicating than before. Kaz gave a deep, vibrating murmur as his tongue invaded her mouth, sparring and dancing with hers, sending waves of odd sensations through her body. He started moving against her, just slightly, gently, swaying his hips back and forth into hers, never breaking the yearning, delicious kiss. The sensation of him, hard and reading and moving against her while she was pinned against the wall, had Sylvia moaning into his mouth.

His large, calloused hand crept up her right leg, under her skirt, where he splayed out his fingers, lifting her leg so that it hooked around his waist. Almost instinctively, Sylvia clumsily hooked her other leg around as he pushed closer, his other hand supporting the base of her neck, tangled in her long hair.

Sylvia's heart beat wildly, her head spun, and her body burned. Then she felt the hard wall leave her back, the scenery shifted around her, and the world tilted.

A creek of springs.

A rustle of fabric.

Linen against her back.

The bed? Sylvia paused as she pulled back from the kiss and sat up, pushing him off her. So as not to sound silly or boring or whatever he had said before, but not to sound too curious either, Sylvia asked in a carefully controlled tone of mild confusion and interest: "What's with the bed?"

"You'll enjoy it more," Kaz replied with a grin. "Trust me, Sylvia,"

There he was again, having no business making her name sound so good. It was fine. It's not like anything bad was happening. She still had her clothes on anyway. He was kind and seemed to really like her. It had been great for her so far as well. The bed meant nothing.

I'll just tell him to stop if it goes too far.

"O-okay then," Sylvia said. His hands wrapped around the small of her back, just below her bra, and he kissed her again, his lips just touching hers before pulling away, making Sylvia tilt her head in confusion. Then his mouth found her neck, making Sylvia tense immediately.

"Relax," he murmured, mouth still pressed to the skin on her neck. Then he blazed a trail down and over her collarbone, pausing here and there to mark her.

She leant her head back as he descended to the exposed curve of a full, tender breast, sending warm tingling through her body. Sylvia flung her hands back onto the bed to support her as her back arched, closer to those clever lips, a moan spilling from her mouth.

It was an octave higher than her usual voice, and much too loud. It had been welling up deep within her and only burst out now, forcing her lips open. Embarrassed, Sylvia bit her lip, her cheek burning. With his face still buried between her breasts, she felt his lips curve in a comforting smile. Her heart pounded wildly, threatening to burst.

"Lie down," he whispered, slowly lowering her onto the bed, raising his hands away from her back. Then he went straight back to work. Kissing and nipping and squeezing, his hands creeping over her ribs to her bra.

When his palm pressed softly over her breast, she shivered. It wasn't a hard squeeze — more like a slow press, a little warmth, and then a gentle lift that made her gasp.
A jolt of something — not just pleasure, something sharper — shot through her. Not fear, but not quite comfort either.

She moaned, surprised at how intense it felt — how her whole body seemed to pulse toward his touch. She didn't feel nervous anymore. Just flushed, warm, and shaky in a good way. Like she was letting go of the rest of the world, one heartbeat at a time.

Somewhere deep inside, something warned her. But every time she tried to gather her thoughts, they scattered again under the weight of his touch.

He was so slow, so rhythmic, making Sylvia's heart threaten to collapse. She was burning now, throbbing, her breasts felt full and heavy against the fabric.

She gasped when his fingers suddenly dug under her bra, sending another wave of heat through her body.

Part of her wanted him to stop. Part of her didn't. But she couldn't find the strength to tell the difference anymore.

She shouldn't want this — what would her aunt say? But it wasn't that bad. His hands were gentle, his voice soft, and his eyes never left hers. And for a moment, she felt seen. Wanted. Like something more than a poor waitress. Nothing was wrong.