Lena's pov
His mouth was hot, demanding, and utterly foreign. It wasn't the careful, reserved touch I was used to; it was rough, edged with a desperation that mirrored my own. He ground against me, the hardness of his uniform pressing into the softness of my thighs, sending a jolt of electric heat through my veins.
I kissed him back with a ferocity that frightened me. I poured every ounce of my frustration, my loneliness, and my fear into the kiss. I bit his lower lip, tasting the copper tang of blood, and he groaned, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against my chest.
"Tell me you want this," he growled against my mouth, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. "Tell me you want me to touch you."
"You know I do," I breathed, the words scraping against my pride. "God help me, I do."
That was all the permission he needed.
