The kiss wasn't a reconciliation; it was a collision.
It tasted like the bitter champagne of the gala and the raw, electric adrenaline of the garage. William's hands immediately left the counter, one tangling deep into my hair to tilt my head back, the other sliding down to the small of my back to hoist me higher against the marble island.
I let out a muffled sound against his lips—half-protest, half-surrender—as the cold stone of the counter met the heat of my skin through my dress.
"You're not going anywhere." He growled against my mouth, his breath hitched and frantic.
