Page 4 of Hard Pass

Jesus, I need another drink.

A smile ghosts over his lips. “So that’s your master plan?”

I shrug. “No. Yes. This is ridiculous. I’ll—”

“Wait.” He grabs my wrist, and it’s the first time he’s touched me. My pulse thuds and the warmth of his hand burns against the skin of my wrist. “Let’s think this through.”

“You’re drunk. I’m drunk. It’s a stupid—”

“Drunk is okay. Drunk is allowed. Drunk is what encouraged you to walk over here to me,” he says with confidence.

I swallow over the lump in my throat. “Yes, it did.”

“And what is it that you want?”

Silence stretches. My mouth goes dry but my courage returns. I grin. “Trouble.”

He laughs. “That could be dangerous for both of us.”

My hands tremble and heart races. “Your point?”

“I guess we better give that friend of yours a show of good faith before we disappear for the night.”

I’m so busy processing what he just said that his words don’t fully compute. “What do you mean—”

His hands are framing my face, and his lips are on mine before I can finish the sentence.

Like it’s an inevitable conclusion.

There’s no hesitation on his part. No testing if this is what he wants. He’s all in from the start.

For a split second, I think, oh, this is a mistake.

And then he devours me and every coherent thought disappears.

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s heat and precision, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and isn’t bothering to hold back. His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me. I should care that we’re in the middle of a crowded bar, that people are watching, that this is reckless and completely out of character . . . but I don’t.

How can I when this kiss—God, this kiss—is skilled. It’s confident. It’s “the” kiss that makes your knees go weak and your head spin in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.

And yes, I’m aware how buzzed I am, but I’m also extremely aware of how devastating his lips on mine are.

I’ll remember this kiss for the rest of my life, as it will become the measure for future kisses.

His thumb brushes along my jaw, tilting my head to deepen it, and I let him. I lean into it—into him—because pulling away isn’t even an option now.

Not when everything about this feels like a dare I don’t want to lose.

And when he finally pulls back, our breaths mix. I can feel the ghost of his mouth still on mine, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

Then his hand finds mine. “C’mon,” he says, voice lower now and rougher at the edges.

I don’t hesitate. Not even a little.

And I sure as hell don’t care about the hoots and hollers that follow us because our intentions are unabashedly clear.

As we make our way out of the bar, I’m aware of movement—of meeting Willa’s knowing glance as we pass by her—but it all blurs together. It’s background noise to the way his hand tightens around mine, pulling me forward. A physical demand to show me how much he wants me.

It’s empowering.