Stefan Rodriguez is a complicated man.
One minute, he's gazing at me hungrily, yanking me to his front, and kissing me until my head spins. Making all my heartsick daydreams of the last four years, all those imaginary kisses that played like a movie reel in my head, pale in comparison to the real thing. Drowning me in perfect, overwhelming details.
Like his heat.
His hunger.
The hard planes of his chest and the little growls in the back of his throat, and the way he kissed along my jaw, breathing in the scent of my skin like he wanted me to fill his lungs.
Then... this. We're back to cold, professional distance between us again, like nothing ever happened. Like it meant nothing. If I didn't know better, I'd think I hallucinated the whole freaking thing—except my lips are kiss-swollen,
