“The kiss between them then was brutally communicative, the rest of the conversation transmuted to touch. He asked permission and she gave it, her hips aligned with his; she begged him and he relented, tugging her backward to fall against him. She remembered his first kiss, how easy it had been, how difficult, how untamed and how helplessly delicate, and this was all of that and more, a thousand tiny earthquakes. When his hands slid to the curve of her hips she sighed between his lips, a moment of tender softness that could so easily have been a lie.
He leaned his head back, meeting her eye.
“I’m your enemy in the morning,” he whispered. Fair warning.
His hand traced the shape of her scapula, fingers brushing the length of her spine and then curling upward, possessive.
“I’m your enemy tonight,” she said, and kissed him again.”