The kiss started gentle, a brush of lips that carried champagne and desperation, rebellion and promise. But Amanda had been starving for real passion for so long that gentle lasted maybe three seconds before she was clinging to me with the urgency of someone who'd just rediscovered oxygen.
"Fuck," she gasped against my mouth, fisting the front of my shirt with surprising strength. "I'd forgotten it could feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like my entire body is on fire and the only thing that can save me is more."
I guided her backward, step by step, toward the bedroom Harold had decorated like a catalogue version of romance. Rose petals on silk sheets, candles arranged with pathetic precision—a desperate man's idea of seduction. Amanda didn't even notice. Her focus was entirely on me.
"Are you sure about this?" I asked, giving her the last chance to stop before we crossed the line that would obliterate her old life.
