Isla’s POV
My hands find his chest, then into his hair without thinking.
Warm. Solid. Brood.
I make a sound before I can stop myself, low and embarrassing, and he feels it—of course he does—because his body reacts instantly. His breath changes. His grip tightens at my waist, fingers digging in just enough to warn me.
Slow down. Or don’t.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes are darker now, stripped of humor, stripped of distance.
“This,” he says quietly, “is not a safe idea.”
I laugh breathlessly. “Since when do I come to you for safety?”
That does it.
His mouth finds mine again, harder this time, more deliberate. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, and my knees actually weaken. I grip his hospital shirt to keep myself upright, heat pool
