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She fits perfectly under my palm — warm, delicate, grounding.
For a beat, I hesitate — feeling her pulse flutter under my thumb, sensing the stillness in her body, the way she leans ever so slightly toward me without even realizing it.
And then I close the distance.
The kiss hits me like a jolt of lightning. Her lips part softly against mine, and the moment her hands lift, pressing lightly to my chest, everything inside me twists.
She fits against me like she was meant to — the curve of her waist beneath my other hand, the soft catch of her breath against my skin, the faint, delicate tremble I feel when I pull her closer.
The world narrows instantly to this: the taste of her, the heat of her body, and the wild, raw thrum of my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s too much — and yet not enough.
I kiss her more deeply, sensing the soft, instinctive sound she produces in the back of her throat, feeling her fingers faintly clutching at my shirt.
She’s softness where I am steel, warmth where I am cold, and it unravels me. I force myself to pull back, chest tight, breath unsteady. She stares up at me, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted — and for a second, I almost lean in again.
But I stop.
Because if I keep going, I know there’s no clean way back. I will end up shoving her into the back of my car.
I lower my head, bringing my mouth just close enough to her ear to murmur something low, half a warning, half a confession — words too quiet for her to catch, but heavy enough to burn inside my own throat.
Then I straighten.
I step back, dragging in a slow, steadying breath, forcing control back into every inch of my body.
“We should go,” I say quietly.
She nods, her expression smoothing, the graceful mask sliding back into place — but I catch the faint tremor in her hands as she gathers her purse.
We walk to the car in silence, the air between us humming, crackling with everything we didn’t say.
And as I open her door and watch her slide in, I know — deep down, with absolute certainty:
This isn’t just political anymore.
I want to fucking hear her moan my name as her breasts giggle in my face.
The car hums quietly as we pull away from the restaurant, city lights blurring past in streaks of gold and silver.
Mara sits beside me, quiet, her hands folded lightly in her lap, her profile soft and thoughtful, and all I can think about is to take her hand and guide it to my twitching cock.
I grip the steering wheel, jaw tight.
The taste of her lips still lingers — the kiss, the heat, the soft press of her body against mine.
I tell myself to stay focused. To keep the boundary clear. But my mind is already bending in dangerous directions. Thinking about all the positions I can enter her from.
Her phone buzzes in her purse. I glance sideways, saying nothing, but every part of me sharpens.
She pulls it out, glancing at the screen.
I catch the faint furrow of her brow — a flicker of hesitation. She ignores it and slides the phone back into the purse on her lap.
The silence stretches, but her device buzzes again. She jumps slightly, pulling the phone back out.
She sighs softly, glancing sideways at me before answering.