For a second—one agonizing second—he doesn't respond.

He's frozen, hands still at his sides, body rigid with shock.

But then something breaks.

His hands fly to my hair, fisting in it almost roughly, and he's kissing me back with a desperation that steals my breath.

It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's months of tension and denied attraction and professional ethics going up in flames.

His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees weak. He tastes like coffee and something mint—gum, maybe, or mouthwash—and underneath it all, something that's uniquely him.

He's walking me backward, and my back hits the...