Page 13 of Unbreakable Bonds (The Boston Romance #2)

"Last chance to walk away," he growls, but his hands betray him, one sliding to my lower back, the other tangling in my hair.

Instead of answering, I close the distance between us. The first touch of his lips against mine is electric, sending sparks through my wine-hazed brain. He tastes better than I imagined—like mint and man and something uniquely Cole.

For a heartbeat, he stays still, letting me lead. Then something snaps. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him with a moan that would embarrass me if I were sober. He deepens the kiss, and holy hell —this is what drowning must feel like. Drowning in sensation, in want, in Cole.

His hands tighten, pulling me closer as his tongue explores my mouth.

I can feel every hard plane of his body pressed against my softer curves.

The kiss turns hungry, desperate, like we're both trying to devour each other.

My fingers dig into his shoulders, needing an anchor in this storm of sensation.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, I pull back. His taste, his touch, his everything—it's too much. Too intense. Too real. My lips tingle, my whole body hums, and my drunk brain can't process the magnitude of what just happened.

I step away, watching his eyes flash with something dark and hungry. His chest rises and falls rapidly, matching my own ragged breathing. Before he can say anything, before I can change my mind and throw myself back into his arms, I turn toward the elevator.

"Goodnight, Bulldozer," I manage to mumble, proud that I only stumble slightly as I walk away.

I hear him groan, followed by the solid thud of his head hitting the doorframe. The sound of frustration, of want, of restraint—it follows me into the elevator, mixing with the memory of his kiss and the lingering effects of the wine.

What have I done?

* * *

Cole

Breathe. Calm the fuck down.

My forehead rests against the doorframe, the cool surface doing nothing to ease the fire raging through my body.

My free hand grips the baluster until my knuckles turn white, trying to ground myself in something solid, something real.

But all I can feel is the ghost of her touch on my skin, the taste of wine and want on my tongue.

Her words echo in my head: "I get so fucking horny whenever I'm around you.

" Christ. That confession, delivered in her wine-loosened voice, released a burst of hormones that are still racing through my veins like wildfire.

The way she admitted to being aroused this morning—it makes my already painful erection strain against my sweats.

I push away from the door, running both hands through my hair.

The lingering scent of her perfume—pear and jasmine mixed with something uniquely Alisha—isn't helping my self-control.

Neither is the memory of how perfectly she fit against me, how her soft curves pressed into my hard planes, how her fingers traced fire across my skin.

"Fuck." The word echoes in my empty penthouse.

She's having wet dreams about me. The thought makes me groan. I've spent countless nights imagining her beneath me, above me, against every surface in my apartment. Knowing she's been doing the same...

A smirk tugs at my lips despite my frustration.

At least I'm not alone in this madness. This attraction that's been building between us like a storm about to break.

The way she looks at me during training, the little sounds she makes when I adjust her stance, how she bites her lip when she thinks I'm not watching—it's been driving me insane.

But I can't act on it. Not like this. Not when she's vulnerable, tipsy, running on liquid courage. She deserves more than a hormone-driven encounter in my doorway. She deserves...everything.

I stalk through my apartment, too wired to stay still. My skin feels too tight, my body too hot. The memory of her kiss burns through me—the soft press of her lips, the way she opened for me, the little moan she made that nearly shattered my control.

A cold shower. That's what I need. My third one today, thanks to this maddening woman.

But as I strip off my sweats and step under the spray, I know it won't help. Images of Alisha flood my mind—her red lips parted in invitation, those curves begging for my hands, the way she pressed against me like she couldn't get close enough. My cock hardens further, and I growl in frustration.

Fuck it.

I wrap my hand around my length, giving in to the fantasy. In my mind, it's her small hand stroking me, her breath hot against my neck as she whispers how much she wants me. I imagine her pressed against the shower wall, water cascading down her perfect body as I taste every inch of her skin.

My hand moves faster as I picture her wrapping those long legs around my waist, begging me to take her. The memory of her moaning my name earlier sends me spiraling closer to the edge. When I come, it's with her name on my lips, guilt and desire warring in my chest.

I lean against the shower wall, letting the now-cold water sluice over my overheated skin. It doesn't help. All I can think about is how her body felt pressed against mine, how her fingers traced patterns of fire across my chest, how her eyes darkened with want when she looked at me.

"Get it together, Walker."

Tomorrow, I'll have to face her in training. Have to watch her move, touch her to correct her stance, pretend I can't still feel the ghost of her lips on mine. Have to be professional when all I want to do is show her exactly how much she affects me.

This woman is going to be the death of me.

And I'm starting to think it might be worth it.