"THE DINNER IS OVER."
Grayson didn't wait for her to agree.
His mouth crashed against hers, a silent, heavy demand that tasted of the dark wine and the iron-sharp edge of his own restraint finally snapping.
It wasn't a tentative exploration; it was a reclamation.
His tongue swept into her mouth with a possessive rhythm, claiming the space as if it were a territory he had long ago conquered and only recently rediscovered.
Mailah's hands flew to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the soft black wool of his sweater. She felt the vibration of a low growl deep in his chest—a sound that was less human than animal.
He didn't pull back.
Instead, he leaned into her, his weight forcing her back against the cool mahogany of the table. The contrast was sharp: the cold wood against her spine and the furnace of Grayson's body between her thighs.
