It wasn't a gentle thing, the way their mouths finally met. It wasn't the kind of soft, tentative brush of lips you see in those old black-and-white movies where the music swells and everything is perfectly choreographed. No, this was a collision, a frantic, desperate crashing together of two people who had been circling a fire for far too long.
Amara felt her resolve, that iron-clad, self-protective wall she'd spent weeks meticulously stacking brick by brick, turn to absolute ash the second his tongue swiped against hers. The "electric tingling" she'd tried to dismiss as static or nerves or just plain old-fashioned stress? It wasn't a tingle anymore. It was a live wire. A lightning strike.
