Ben just… stood there for a second.

Not long. Not dramatic. But long enough for the wind to slide right through the space where her hand had been in his pocket and make the absence feel louder than it should’ve.

He stared down at the three granola bars in his palm like they were evidence from a crime scene.

Full restitution.

He snorted under his breath, half laugh, half disbelief, and closed his fingers around them.

Then her voice floated back—light as air, sharp as a hook.

That wasn’t about snacks.

Ben’s brain tried to do something useful with that information.

It failed.

His eyebrows lifted slowly. His mouth opened like he had a response ready.

He did not.

The wink was the final blow. A clean, surgical hit. One that left him standing on a boardwalk in a lava field holding three granola bars like a man who had just been spiritually body-checked.

He blinked once.

Then twice.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, voice faintly hoarse. “Cool. Great. Awesome.”

He looked toward the retreat—at the warm light spilling through glass, at the steam lifting into the cold like a promise.

Then he looked back down at the granola bars.

And because the universe had a sense of humor, he tucked them into his pocket like he was safeguarding precious artifacts.

He started walking again, quickening his pace just slightly—not a jog, but the kind of brisk, purposeful walk of a man who suddenly remembered he had somewhere to be and also might be in danger of getting kissed into another dimension later.

He pushed through the doors a few beats after her, warmth rushing over him. The lobby smelled faintly like cedar and expensive soap and quiet money. People moved slowly, wrapped in towels or robes, faces relaxed and unbothered.

Cleo was already ahead, utterly composed, as if she hadn’t just dropped a loaded line and vanished.

Ben caught up beside her, slipping into step like he belonged there—like he hadn’t been emotionally tripped in the snow five minutes ago.

He leaned in slightly, voice low, playful, so only she could hear.

“Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, eyes forward like an innocent man, “I understood the wink.”

A beat.

“I did not understand it peacefully.”

He glanced sideways at her, catching the curve of her mouth, and his own smile turned slow and crooked.

“And I would like to officially submit,” he continued, “that ‘reciprocation’ is an extremely unhinged thing to imply right before dinner. Because now I have to sit across from you and pretend I’m thinking about food.”

He paused as they reached the hallway that led toward the restaurant, then added with mock sincerity:

“I’m gonna be a nightmare.”

Then he straightened, all charm again, slipping into the soft normalcy like it was muscle memory.

“Alright,” he said, brighter, as if nothing had happened at all. “Lead the way.”

But his hand drifted back toward hers as they walked—subtle, familiar—like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded.

Because he knew exactly what she’d done.

And he was going to spend the rest of dinner trying not to grin like an idiot every time she looked at him.

Cleo heard him coming before he caught up.

Not because he was loud—Ben rarely was—but because there was something unmistakable about the energy he carried when he was trying very hard to look like a man who was completely fine.

She moved slowly through the warm cedar-scented lobby, boots soft against the polished floor, the heat of the building thawing the chill that had settled into her bones outside. The air smelled faintly of wood, mineral water, and something herbal drifting from the spa down the hall. Guests moved quietly around them—wrapped in white robes, hair still damp from the lagoon, voices soft and unhurried.

Cleo slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat as she walked, shrugging the fabric closer around herself while the warmth spread through her fingers again.

When Ben leaned in beside her, his voice low and conspiratorial, she didn’t look at him right away.

She just listened.

Just so we’re clear… I understood the wink.

Her mouth twitched faintly.

I did not understand it peacefully.

That finally did it.

She turned her head slightly, catching the edge of his grin, the way he was doing a very convincing impression of a man who was calm and composed when in reality he looked like someone who had just been dropped into the middle of a completely different game.

“Mm,” she murmured softly, like she was taking his complaint very seriously.

When he continued—about having to sit through dinner pretending he was thinking about food—her shoulders lifted in a small, innocent shrug.

“I did warn you,” she said lightly.

The hallway toward the restaurant opened ahead of them, soft golden lighting spilling across thick rugs and low wooden walls. The faint clink of silverware and quiet conversation drifted from the dining room doors.

Ben straightened beside her, slipping back into his usual easy charm like muscle memory.

Lead the way.

Cleo stopped.

It was subtle enough that he almost didn’t notice at first.

He took another step before realizing she hadn’t moved.

When he turned slightly toward her, she was already looking up at him.

For a moment she just studied him—the wind had left his hair a little wilder than usual, the shaggy brown strands falling across his forehead in soft disarray. The warmth of the building had taken the edge off the cold in his cheeks, leaving them faintly flushed.

Without saying anything, she lifted her hand.

Her fingers brushed lightly along his jaw.

The touch was gentle, warm against skin that still held the last trace of Icelandic cold. Her thumb traced along the faint line of stubble there, slow and thoughtful, like she was grounding herself in the familiar shape of his face.

Ben went very still.

Cleo’s eyes stayed on his for another quiet second before she spoke.

“You know…” she said softly.

Her hand lingered there just a moment longer before falling away.

“We could always skip the restaurant.”

A small pause.

“Get room service instead.”

The words landed between them calmly, almost casually, but the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Then you wouldn’t have to sit there pretending you’re thinking about food.”

She stepped past him again, turning away from the dining room hallway entirely and heading instead toward the elevators at the far end of the lobby. The polished floor reflected the warm overhead lights, and a tall window nearby showed the dark Icelandic evening outside—steam drifting in pale ribbons against the night.

As she walked she loosened the belt of her coat slightly, pushing her hair back over one shoulder.

Then she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said simply.

Her expression was calm, but there was something unmistakably playful in her eyes.

“Before you start behaving again.”

Ben’s brain did the funniest thing.

It went completely blank.

Not in a cute, harmless way either—more like someone had reached in and yanked the power cord out of the wall. One second he had a whole personality, a whole set of jokes lined up, a whole plan to be charming and scandalously polite.

Then her hand hit his jaw and the plan disintegrated into static.

He stood there for half a beat too long, like the lobby might be able to explain what just happened.

It didn’t.

Cleo’s thumb traced his stubble—slow, thoughtful—and Ben swallowed hard, eyes tracking her mouth like an idiot who’d never seen a woman before in his life.

And then she said it.

We could always skip the restaurant.

Room service.

No pretending.

Ben’s gaze flicked once—just once—toward the dining room hallway with the soft clink of silverware and the warm glow and the normal, responsible adult life waiting in there.

Then it snapped back to her as she turned toward the elevators.

A small, helpless laugh broke out of him under his breath. Not because it was funny.

Because it was her.

Because she made him feel like he was sixteen again and also thirty at the same time—like he knew exactly what he wanted and still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have it.

He started after her immediately, of course he did. But he didn’t catch up right away. He let her have the lead, watched the way she moved through the lobby like she belonged to the quiet—like she’d made peace with it and could bend it around them when she wanted.

When she loosened the belt of her coat, Ben’s entire body did a useless little internal flinch.

Like: Oh. We’re doing this. We’re actually doing this.

He reached into his pocket absentmindedly and felt the shape of the three granola bars.

Which, honestly, felt like the universe mocking him.

He stepped into the elevator alcove just as she pressed the button. The doors were still closed, the little arrow above them glowing patiently, and Ben stood beside her trying to look like a man who wasn’t one sentence away from combusting.

He failed again.

He leaned in slightly, voice low, playful—barely contained.

“Before I start behaving again,” he echoed, eyebrows lifting. “That makes it sound like you’ve seen me behave and found it… disappointing.”

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

Ben didn’t move at first. Not until she stepped inside. Then he followed, turning automatically so his body angled between her and the hallway—pure habit, pure instinct, like he was still shielding her from cold wind and rogue boardwalk planks.

The doors slid shut, sealing them in warm quiet.

Ben exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath since the lava field.

Then he finally looked at her—really looked.

“You’re evil,” he said softly, with absolute fondness. “Do you know that?”

A beat.

His gaze dropped to her mouth again. He swallowed once, the grin tugging crooked at the corner of his lips.

“I was ready to be a model citizen,” he added. “I was ready to talk about soup like it was a personality trait. I was gonna pull your chair out and everything.”

He lifted his hand, and for a second it hovered—like he was asking permission with his body even if his mouth couldn’t manage it.

Then his fingers brushed the edge of her coat collar, knuckles grazing her neck where her skin was warm from inside now. His touch was light. Testing. Reverent.

“And now,” he murmured, “you’re trying to get me to skip dinner.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, bright with that unmistakable mix of mischief and want.

“That’s not fair.”

A pause.

“Also,” he added, quieter, almost laughing at himself, “it’s working.”

The elevator started to rise. The soft hum filled the space.

Ben shifted closer, not crowding—just enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the steady presence.

His voice dropped again, intimate and playful.

“Room service,” he murmured. “Okay. Great.”

Another beat.

“But I need you to know,” he continued, eyes locked on hers, “if we do this… you don’t get to act innocent when I spend the entire ride upstairs thinking about that little jaw touch.”

He let his thumb skim lightly along the inside of her wrist—small contact, loud meaning.

“And for the record,” he added, mouth tipping into a grin again, “I can behave.”

He leaned in a fraction, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek.

“I just don’t want to.”

The elevator kept climbing, the hotel quiet around them, and Ben—rockstar, troublemaker, hopelessly devoted—let himself look at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.

Because right now, she was.

The elevator hummed quietly as it climbed, the soft mechanical sound filling the small space between floors. Warm light glowed overhead, reflecting faintly off the brushed metal walls. Outside the glass panel in the door, the lobby level slipped away, replaced by the slow, steady rise toward the guest floors above.

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She watched him.

The way his voice had dipped when he said he could behave.
The way his hand hovered before touching her coat collar, like he still asked permission even when he was clearly losing the fight with himself.

When his knuckles brushed the edge of her collar and the warmth of her neck, something in her expression softened.

His last line hung between them.

I just don’t want to.

For a moment the only sound was the quiet lift of the elevator and the steady rhythm of both their breathing in the small space.

Cleo’s eyes stayed on his.

Then she stepped closer.

Not suddenly. Not dramatic. Just one smooth shift forward that erased the little bit of space between them. The front of her coat brushed against his shirt as she leaned in, one hand lifting slowly until her fingers settled against the front of his jacket.

Her thumb rested there for a second, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric.

“You know,” she said softly, her voice quieter now in the enclosed space, “I noticed that.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to his mouth again before returning to his eyes.

“That you can behave.”

A small pause.

“Sometimes.”

The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Then she leaned in the rest of the way.

Her kiss landed slow and deliberate, warm and unhurried. Not the teasing, passing kind she’d given him on the boardwalk earlier, but something deeper—her mouth fitting against his like she had already decided exactly how long she intended to stay there.

One of her hands slid lightly up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric near his collar as she kissed him.

For a second she pulled back just enough that their foreheads nearly touched, her breath warm between them.

“There,” she murmured.

Her hand slipped down from his collar to rest briefly against his chest again, grounding both of them in the small moving room.

“That should help with the behaving problem.”

The quiet hum returned after the soft sound of their kiss faded, the small space warm and still around them. Cleo didn’t step away immediately. Her hand remained against his chest for a moment longer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her fingers.

Ben looked like someone who had just been successfully ambushed.

Cleo’s mouth curved slightly at that.

She eased back just enough to look at him properly again, one shoulder brushing the metal wall behind her. A loose strand of blonde hair had fallen forward near her cheek, and she pushed it back absently as the elevator continued its slow climb.

Outside the glass panel the numbers ticked upward.

Another second passed.

Then the elevator chimed softly.

The movement slowed, the mechanical hum lowering in pitch as the car eased to a stop. The doors slid open with a gentle whisper, revealing a quiet hallway lined with warm lights, pale wood paneling, and thick carpet that muted every sound.

Cleo glanced toward the open corridor.

Then back at Ben.

“See?” she said softly, like this had all gone exactly according to plan. “You survived the ride.”

Her fingers brushed briefly against his wrist before she stepped forward out of the elevator, boots quiet against the carpet.

The hallway felt calmer than the lobby—almost hushed. A long window at the far end looked out over the dark Icelandic landscape, steam drifting up from the lagoon in pale ribbons against the night.

Cleo walked a few steps down the corridor before slowing, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was following.

There was that same faint smile again.

The one that had gotten him into trouble all evening.

“Well?” she said lightly.

She slipped the keycard from her coat pocket, turning it between her fingers as she reached their door.

“I thought you said room service was working.”

Ben followed her out of the elevator like a man attempting to walk normally after getting his brain reset.

Which—judging by the way his shoulders were still slightly too tense and his mouth kept twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to grin or file a formal complaint—was not going great.

He hadn’t spoken since the kiss. Not because he didn’t have words, but because every single one of them was either:

1. embarrassingly honest,


2. wildly inappropriate for a hotel hallway, or


3. both.



Cleo’s “you survived the ride” hit him like an insult disguised as a compliment, and he let out a breathy laugh that sounded like defeat with a pulse.

He trailed a step behind her, eyes on the back of her coat, the swing of her hair, the easy way she moved like she hadn’t just rearranged his entire internal wiring with one deliberate kiss. The corridor was quiet enough that he could hear the soft scuff of their boots on carpet, the faint hush of distant water systems, the little click of the keycard between her fingers.

And then she looked back at him.

That smile again.

His throat bobbed.

He did what he always did when he felt too much: he went playful.

He leaned his shoulder lightly against the wall beside their door, trying for casual. Succeeding in looking like a guy who was definitely thinking about kissing her again.

“Well?” she asked, sweet as sin.

Room service. Working.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the keycard, then back to her face. His grin went slow and crooked.

“Okay,” he said, voice low, a little rough at the edges like the elevator had stolen the oxygen. “First of all—room service is working in the sense that it has fundamentally altered my priorities.”

He lifted his hands a little, palms out, like he was presenting an argument to the same snack-related court she’d invented earlier.

“Second of all,” he continued, stepping closer—not cornering, just closing the distance because apparently he no longer knew how to exist more than a foot away from her, “I would like to file a complaint.”

He nodded toward her mouth with exaggerated seriousness.

“You can’t just do that—kiss me like you already own the rest of my evening—and then ask if it’s working.”

A beat. His eyes warmed.

“It’s like asking a man if he’s hydrated while actively pouring water down his throat.”

He let his gaze drop briefly—her coat, her hands, the way she held the keycard like she held every advantage—and then he looked back up, grin turning boyish.

“Also,” he added, quieter, “I did survive the ride. Barely. That was not a fair test.”

He shifted closer again, head tilting slightly.

“If you do that again in an enclosed space,” he said, voice soft with humor and something else underneath it, “I’m gonna start acting irresponsible on purpose.”

He reached out, fingers brushing her wrist—not grabbing, just touching. Like he needed proof she was real and still right there.

Then he glanced down the hallway toward the distant window, the steam rising in pale ribbons against the night.

“You know what’s crazy?” he murmured. “This place is so peaceful and I’m still—”

He cut himself off, smiling again because he wasn’t about to hand her a full confession in a hallway.

Instead, he leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed the space near her cheek.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he said softly. “Room service isn’t the thing that’s working.”

His eyes flicked to hers.

“You are.”

He pulled back just enough to let her see the grin return—easy, charming, completely smitten.

“So yeah,” he said, nodding once, decisive. “Open the door.”

A pause.

“And I’ll order whatever you want.”

Another beat, his voice dropping to something warm and wicked:

“Just don’t act surprised when I can’t remember a single item on the menu.”

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just watched him for a second—the way he leaned against the wall like he was pretending to be relaxed while clearly vibrating with energy, the crooked grin that kept breaking through no matter how hard he tried to play it cool.

When he finally finished his speech—about room service, priorities, hydration metaphors, and forgetting the menu—her mouth curved again in that quiet, knowing way.

Then she slid the keycard through the lock.

The soft green light blinked.

The door clicked open.

Cleo pushed it inward and stepped inside first, the warmth of the suite wrapping around her immediately. The lighting was soft and amber-toned, the room large and open in that understated luxury the retreat seemed to specialize in.

Behind her, the door closed with a quiet thud.

For a moment she didn’t say anything.

She moved calmly across the entry space, shrugging her coat off her shoulders as she walked. The thick fabric slid down her arms easily, revealing the sweater she’d been wearing underneath. She draped the coat over the back of the nearest chair near the entryway without really looking.

Ben was still near the door.

And she could feel his eyes on her.

That awareness followed her across the room like warmth.

She slipped her boots off next, nudging them neatly beside the wall before stepping barefoot onto the soft carpet. The room opened fully in front of them now—a small living area with a low couch facing a wide window, a kitchenette tucked along the wall with polished wood cabinets and a quiet little counter space.

One of the nicer suites.

Plenty of room.

Too much room, maybe, considering the tension that had followed them upstairs.

Cleo finally turned around.

Ben was still standing where he’d been, near the door, looking like a man who had just walked into the last place on earth he expected to lose control of a conversation.

She leaned lightly back against the edge of the counter behind her, folding her arms loosely for a second while she looked at him.

Confident.

Curious.

That same faint smile.

“So,” she said calmly.

Her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

“What exactly is working?”

The question was gentle, but the look she gave him made it clear she already knew the answer.

She pushed off the counter and walked toward him slowly, her bare feet quiet on the carpet.

Ben didn’t move.

By the time she reached him the distance between them had almost disappeared again.

Cleo stopped just in front of him.

Her gaze drifted briefly to his mouth, then back up to his eyes.

“You mentioned the kiss,” she said softly.

Her hand lifted again—slow, deliberate.

Her fingers found his jaw exactly where they had before.

This time she didn’t just brush past it.

Her thumb traced along the line of his stubble again, warm and thoughtful, her palm settling lightly against his cheek as if she were reacquainting herself with the shape of his face.

She knew exactly what that touch did to him.

And the small, almost imperceptible smile that appeared told him she knew it.

“You mean this?” she asked quietly.

Her thumb slid once more along his jaw before she leaned in just enough that her voice dropped lower between them.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the building and the distant whisper of water systems running somewhere deep in the spa below.

Cleo didn’t pull her hand away.

She let it rest there against his jaw, her eyes steady on his.

Waiting.

Ben forgot every single smart thing he’d been planning to say.

Not metaphorically. Not in the charming, exaggerated way he usually played it.

Just—gone.

Her hand on his jaw did that to him. The slow drag of her thumb through the scruff there, the calm certainty of it, the way she stood in front of him like she had all the time in the world and already knew exactly what she was doing. He felt it everywhere—low in his ribs, at the back of his neck, in the sudden, dangerous stillness that took over his body.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t run his mouth just to buy himself a second.

He just stood there by the door, feeling her palm against his cheek and looking at her like she’d turned the whole room into something much smaller than it was. Something warmer. Something he could get lost in if she kept touching him like that for another ten seconds.

His hand came up slowly—not to stop her, never that—just to touch the inside of her wrist. Lightly. His thumb rested there, feeling her pulse, grounding himself before he completely unraveled in the entryway like some guy who’d never been kissed before.

Then he let out the smallest breath. Half laugh. Half surrender.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

His voice came out lower than he meant it to. Roughened.

“This.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth for a second, then came back up, open and a little helpless in a way only she ever got to see.

“And the part where you know exactly what you’re doing,” he added, the corner of his mouth tugging despite himself. “That’s… really not helping me keep any kind of dignity here.”

He stepped in then. Not enough to crowd her, just enough that the space between them stopped feeling theoretical. His free hand found the edge of the counter beside her hip, bracing there like he needed somewhere to put all the energy she’d pulled out of him.

Ben tilted his head slightly into her touch, because pretending he didn’t like it would’ve been stupid and they were past stupid tonight.

“You touch my face like that,” he murmured, eyes on hers, “and then you ask what’s working?”

A beat.

“Feels a little rigged.”

The smile she’d been wearing made him laugh softly through his nose. God, she was gorgeous when she got quiet and deliberate like this. Dangerous in the most civilized possible way.

He let his thumb skim once along the inside of her wrist again, then his gaze dipped to her mouth one more time.

“I was trying to be charming about it,” he said. “Say something smooth. Keep a little mystery alive.”

Another small breath.

“But honestly?”

His voice dropped lower.

“It’s you in this room with me. Barefoot. Looking at me like that. Touching me like you’ve already decided something.”

He didn’t kiss her yet. He got close enough that he could have, easily, but he stayed there, hovering just at the edge of it, letting the tension pull tight and sweet between them.

His expression softened. Less joking now. More true.

“And I know I’m supposed to care about dinner,” he said quietly, “but I really, really don’t.”

Then, because he was still himself—because some part of him would always reach for humor right at the edge of sincerity, just to keep from combusting—his mouth curved again.

“So if this is a trap,” he murmured, “I just want it on record that I walked in willingly.”

His eyes held hers another second.

Then his hand slid from her wrist, up her forearm, slow and warm, until it came to rest lightly at her waist.

Waiting, the same way she was.

Cleo didn’t answer him immediately.

She let the quiet breathe for a moment instead.

The room had settled around them in that soft, insulated way expensive hotels always seemed to manage—warm lamplight glowing against pale wood, the faint hum of heating hidden somewhere behind the walls, the distant whisper of water moving through the spa floors below. Outside the large window across the living space, the Icelandic night sat heavy and dark, steam drifting faintly upward from the geothermal pools somewhere out of sight.

But none of that held her attention.

Ben did.

Her hand was still resting against his jaw, fingers curved along the warmth of his cheek while her thumb moved slowly through the stubble there, thoughtful and unhurried. She could feel the way he’d gone still under the touch—the subtle tightening in his shoulders, the quiet way his breathing had shifted.

He always did that when she touched his face.

Like some part of him forgot what he’d been about to say.

She studied him while he talked, watching the flicker of honesty behind the humor, the way his voice dipped lower when the teasing gave way to something more real. His hand had found her waist now, warm and steady through the fabric of her sweater, grounding himself there without even thinking about it.

When he finished—when he admitted he didn’t care about dinner and that he’d walked into the trap willingly—her mouth curved just a little.

“You did,” she said softly.

Then she moved.

The step was small, but it closed the last of the space between them. His body was warm where it met hers, the solid line of him pressing lightly against her as she reached up again, her fingers slipping from his jaw to the back of his neck. Her hand threaded gently into the hair at the base of his head, the familiar texture of it grounding in a way she didn’t entirely examine.

Ben was taller.

He always had been.

So Cleo rose slightly onto the balls of her feet, steady and natural, bringing her face level with his.

For a second she simply looked at him.

Close enough now that she could see the tiny shifts in his expression—the way his mouth had parted slightly, the way his eyes had softened when he realized she wasn’t joking anymore.

Then she kissed him.

This one wasn’t the quick spark from the elevator.

It landed slower. Warmer. Certain.

Her mouth met his with quiet confidence, her hand holding gently at the back of his neck while the other settled briefly against his chest to steady herself on her toes. The warmth of him flooded through the small space between them, and for that suspended second the entire suite seemed to shrink around the moment.

The world outside—lava fields, icy boardwalks, polite dinners they were supposed to attend—faded cleanly away.

He was the only thing there.

After a moment she pulled back, but only barely.

Her feet lowered softly back to the carpet while her fingers remained loosely curled at the back of his neck. Their faces were still close—close enough that his warmth lingered against her lips, close enough that she could feel the shift in his breathing.

Her eyes searched his for a second, amused and bright with the knowledge of exactly what she’d just done to him.

The corner of her mouth lifted.

“You just gonna stand there,” she asked quietly, her voice threaded with soft humor—

“or you gonna do something, Benjamin?”

Ben’s whole body answered before his mouth did.

Something in him shifted the second she said it—low, clean, decisive. The teasing part of him didn’t disappear exactly. It just got quieter. Stepped back. Made room.

His hand at her waist tightened, not hard enough to startle, just enough to make the point that he’d heard her.

Oh, he’d heard her.

For half a second he only looked at her, that crooked almost-smile gone softer, sharper somehow. Like the boyish charm had burned down into something steadier. More dangerous. The kind of look that said he knew exactly what she’d done to him with that kiss, and exactly what he wanted to do about it.

Then he moved.

His other hand slid up, slow but certain, curving around the back of her neck as he stepped fully into her space. Not asking the room for permission. Not pretending he still cared about dinner or room service or whatever flimsy excuse for restraint had existed thirty seconds ago.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice roughened into something lower. “I’m gonna do something.”

And then he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not careless.

Just deeper.

The kind of kiss that came with intention behind it—his mouth opening over hers with a hungry, measured confidence that made the whole suite feel suddenly too warm. His hand stayed at the back of her neck, thumb brushing into her hairline, while the other held steady at her waist and drew her in until there was no space left to wonder about.

He kissed her like a man who had been playful all day and was done pretending that was the whole story.

Cleo’s sweater was soft beneath his palm. The heat of her through it nearly wrecked him. He let his hand travel—only a little, just enough to feel the shape of her side, the curve of her back as he pulled her closer against him. Enough to make it clear he wasn’t just standing there anymore.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was only to drag his mouth along the line of her jaw, warm and deliberate, until he found the place just below her ear. He felt her breath hitch and smiled against her skin, barely there.

“That what you meant?” he murmured.

But he didn’t wait for an answer. Not really.

His mouth found hers again, slower this time for half a beat before he tilted her head the way he wanted and kissed her deeper still, his grip on her tightening just slightly when she leaned into him. There was nothing hesitant in him now. No careful distance. No half-step retreat.

Just heat. And certainty. And the very male satisfaction of finally getting his hands on something he’d been wanting all evening.

He backed her up a single step—then another—until the counter edge met the backs of her thighs. Not trapping. Just guiding. His hand slid from her waist to her hip, thumb pressing there through the fabric of her sweater like he liked the feel of having her exactly where he wanted her.

When he pulled back again, his forehead rested briefly to hers, his breathing no longer even.

“You ask me that,” he said, voice low and almost amused, “while you’re kissing me like that?”

A breath.

“That’s cruel.”

His fingers skimmed up her side, then back down, not enough to lose control of himself, but enough to make good on the promise of doing something. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, then back to her face.

And there it was again—that look. Less boy now. More man.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

Not because he thought she would.

Because he wanted her to know he’d stop in a second if she asked. Because whatever had taken over in him still knew exactly who she was.

When she didn’t, his mouth curved.

“Thought so.”

He kissed her again—shorter, hotter—and this time his hand slid behind her thigh, lifting just enough to settle her onto the edge of the counter with an ease that made it clear he hadn’t done it to show off, just because standing this far apart had become intolerable.

“There,” he said, low and satisfied, one hand braced beside her on the counter, the other warm on her leg. “Better.”

Then he looked at her like she was the one thing in the room worth any attention at all, and leaned in to kiss her again—slow at first, then not slow at all.

Cleo felt the shift in him the moment it happened.

It wasn’t sudden or reckless—it was steadier than that. The teasing edge that had carried them through the boardwalk and the elevator softened into something deeper, something warmer and more certain. And when his hand tightened at her waist, she knew exactly what that meant.

Her breath caught just slightly when he stepped into her space.

Then he kissed her.

The difference between this kiss and the others wasn’t subtle. It was slower at first, deliberate, the weight of his attention settling fully on her as if the rest of the world had finally stepped out of the room. His hand at the back of her neck held her there gently, his thumb brushing through her hair while the other arm kept her close against him.

Cleo leaned into it immediately.

Her fingers tightened at the back of his neck, pulling him closer as she rose again onto her toes to meet him. The warmth of him, the steady strength in the way he held her, made something low and bright spark through her chest.

When he guided her back toward the counter she went with him easily, the edge of it pressing against the backs of her thighs before he lifted her up. The motion was smooth and instinctive, and the second she was sitting there she drew him closer between her knees without hesitation.

Her legs wrapped lightly around his hips, pulling him in until there was no space left between them.

Cleo kissed him back just as hungrily now, her hands sliding from his shoulders down his chest, fingers catching in the fabric of his shirt before slipping underneath it. Her palms found the warmth of his skin there, fingertips brushing slowly over the firm lines of his back as she explored the heat of him.

The contact made her breath deepen against his mouth.

Ben’s warmth was everywhere—his hands steady at her waist and thigh, his body pressed close between her knees, the faint scent of cold air and cedar still clinging to him from outside.

Cleo tilted her head slightly, kissing him deeper, her fingers tracing along his sides beneath the shirt before moving upward again, feeling the way he reacted to her touch.

The room felt smaller now.

Quieter.

Only the soft rustle of fabric, the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the warmth building between them filling the space.

Her hands lingered beneath his shirt, fingertips grazing his skin again before settling there as she pulled him closer against her, kissing him with a slow, hungry confidence that made it clear she had no intention of stopping any time soon.