Craving The Enemy
He squeaked—actually squeaked—and shoved at my shoulder.
“Mason, you’re heavy.”
“You’re toned, you can handle it,” I teased.
He huffed, then twisted us again with surprising force. We landed on the floor with a thud, him straddling me. His hair was a mess, his shirt—my shirt—falling off one shoulder, his eyes bright despite the shadows under them.
I smirked up at him. “Guess you win.”
“Damn right I do.”
He leaned down, kissing me slow, deep. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that burned—it was the kind that healed. His lips trembled against mine, and when he pulled back, his eyes were wet.
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