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"You’re dangerous," I whisper.

"So are you," he says, his voice low and hoarse. "But I’ve never wanted a risk more."

My whole body flushes with warmth. With want. With the terrifying, wonderful awareness that I might never kiss anyone else the same way again.

He backs me toward the futon, one hand sliding up my side, the other finding my hip. My pulse is everywhere. My brain is nowhere. We sink down together, slow and weightless, thekiss never breaking. I feel the soft give of the cushions beneath me, his body hovering just enough to keep us in that charged, breathless space. The room fades. All I can feel is his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him pressing into every nerve ending like he’s rewriting how I experience touch.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmurs, lips brushing the corner of my mouth.

"Good crazy or bad crazy?"

His laugh is low and rough. "The kind where I can’t stop thinking about doing very bad things to you. The kind that’ll have you moaning my name and forgetting every single bar exam fact you ever learned."

"You say that like it’s a problem."

"It is," he whispers, kissing along my jaw, "because every time I try to keep things easy between us... you go and look at me like that."

"Like what?"

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Like you want me as much as I want you."

My breath catches. "What if I do?"

His hand slides up my back, slow and certain. "Then we’ve got a problem. Because I don’t think I’ll be able to stop at just one kiss."

His shirt rides up slightly, my fingers brushing bare skin. I gasp. He groans.

We break apart, just enough to look at each other. His eyes are dark. Searching. "Tell me to stop."

I don’t.

Not yet.

His lips find the curve of my neck, trailing fire across my skin. One of my hands finds his hair. The other presses to his chest, as if to steady myself, or maybe to memorize the shape of him.

We’re breathing hard now. Lost.

His hand moves from my hip, slow and reverent, sliding up beneath the hem of my shirt until his palm settles over my breast. The fabric is thin, and the touch is firm but careful, exploratory. I forget to breathe for a second. I don’t stop him. I can’t. My body arches into it, craving the pressure and the warmth.

But there’s tension in my chest, tight and coiled. I feel it even as I let him keep touching me, this war between want and warning pulsing behind my ribs.

He senses it. His hand stills, his thumb brushing gently across the curve of me, not demanding, just waiting.

My eyes find his.

He pulls back just enough to look at me again. "Mandy."

I press my forehead to his. "I want this. I do. But I can’t… not yet."

He nods instantly, pulling back, breathing like he just played a full game in overtime. "Okay."

I pull my shirt back down and smooth my hair. "Okay."

He runs a hand down his face, jaw tight with restraint. "You have no idea how badly I want to throw caution out the window and take you right here. But this doesn’t mean a thing unless you want it just as much, without hesitation."

My chest aches. "Thank you."

He leans in, presses a firm kiss to my forehead. "Just so we’re clear, I'm not backing off. Not until you tell me to."