The door barely clicked shut before Vanessa slammed into me, mouth open and starving, tongue thrusting deep like she'd been drowning for two years and I was the only air left on earth.
Fuck.
Not the careful kisses from the car.
Not the tentative, am-I-allowed, first-page kisses that had tasted like permission being granted one syllable at a time.
These were the kisses that came after—the ones that happened when a woman had already made her decision and her body was furious at her brain for taking so long.
Her hands clamped to my face. Both of them. Fingernails digging into my jaw like she'd claw me open if I tried to pull away.
Her mouth was open, wet, ravenous—desperate in a way that wasn't performance but pure, overflowing starvation. Years of celibacy poured out through her lips, her tongue, the small, wrecked, animal whimpers she couldn't stop making against my teeth.
