We were barely through the front door when the kissing started again, fierce and frantic, like the fifteen-minute drive had only stoked the fire instead of cooling it. Kasteil had driven like a man possessed—tires squealing on turns, engine roaring as he pushed the speed limit without a hint of hesitation. His right hand never left my thigh the entire way, fingers digging in possessively, sliding higher every few minutes until I was squirming in the passenger seat, breath hitching, barely able to focus on the road blurring past the windows.
He kicked the door close with his foot, never breaking the kiss. We fumbled out of our shoes in a clumsy tangle—mine half-kicked off, his abandoned somewhere near the entryway—while our mouths stayed locked. My coat hit the floor first.
He tugged off my sweater in one impatient yank.
