Your backs hit the cold tiles, but the heat between your bodies is all-consuming. His lips devour yours urgently, as if kissing were a necessity, not an option. His hands roam your waist, your back, your thighs—seeking more, always more. And then…

“Jacob, no,” you murmur, holding your breath. He stops, but doesn’t pull away. He just looks at you. Eyebrows raised, smile crooked.

“Really? Are we saints now? After shoving his tongue down my throat?” He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound amused. He lets out a hollow, almost mocking laugh and runs a hand through his hair as he takes a step back.

“No, of course. I forgot you only want to play when it suits you. I’m the jerk who’s always available when the heat hits, right?” He gives you a quick, intense look, as if he wants to engrave you in his memory only to hate you more precisely later.

"Calm down, princess. I'm not going to touch you. Not without written and signed permission this time."

But as soon as you say his name—just that, his name, in a softer, almost guilty tone—his expression changes. And without another word, he returns to you. He kisses you again. With suppressed rage. With bitter pride. With all the things he doesn't want to say out loud.* "Don't provoke me if you're not going to handle what comes next."