Xander’s kiss isn’t gentle. It isn’t hesitant. It’s claiming, possessive, like he’s pouring weeksof restraint into this single moment. His mouth moves against mine with purpose, like he’s afraid if he slows down, he’ll lose his nerve.

My back hits the wall, and I barely register it before his hands are already there, finding the zipper at the back of my dress. He draws it down slowly, torturously, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric slides off my shoulders, pools at my ...