CROSSED THE F*CKING LINE

KATRINA

Earlier, I googled the distance of the packhouse from the theatre and as luck would have it, it was just a ten-minute drive. But that wouldn’t save me now because so much damage could be made in those ten minutes.

Ian deepened the kisses and I was mesmerized by the bitter-sweet fondness, accepting it wholeheartedly even though in reality, I didn’t want to. I had lost track of time because every instant I thought Ian would let go, it only intensified and intensified, and if that didn’t make me soaking wet, nothing could.

It was when his hands, which were once grasping my head on a well-chosen nerve, released—starting to undo his shirt—that I was able to process what was happening around me.

But even then, he didn’t stop.

“Ian, st…” I managed to say with a huge intake of breath but doubted he heard me.

My hands lay on his now naked chest and instantly, he transferred his kisses to my neck, gripping my waist and allowing me to breathe again. “F*ck