The kitchen was silent now, save for the hum of the fridge and the wind rustling the trees outside. Savannah leaned back on the counter, skin flushed, lips swollen, her breath finally slowing.
Jace stood in front of her, shirt still off, belt hanging loosely from his jeans. He looked like a man trying to remember why touching her was a mistake—and failing miserably.
"Well," Savannah said, reaching lazily for her tank top, "that was…"
"Insane," Jace finished, voice husky.
"Hot," she added, smirking.
He didn't smile. Instead, he stepped back, running a hand through his messy hair.
"We can't do that again."
Savannah tilted her head, amused. "We can't?"
"You're—damn it, Savannah. You're my step-niece."
She slid down off the counter, brushing past him intentionally as she walked toward the sink. "We're not blood. And I'm not some teenage girl with a crush, Jace."
He turned to face her, jaw tight. "Your mom's married to my sister."
"And?"
"And I've known you since you were sixteen," he said sharply. "You're not the same girl who used to steal sips of whiskey and sneak off during barbecues."
"No," she said, turning to look at him directly. "I'm not. I grew up. I make my own choices now."
She stepped closer again, so close he could smell the remnants of watermelon on her skin.
"And last I checked, you didn't exactly say no."
He exhaled sharply. "You're trouble, Savannah Lane."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have kissed me like that."
He stared at her for a long moment, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. But then he backed away—grabbed his shirt from the table and threw it on roughly.
"Don't follow me this time," he said, voice low. "I need space."
Savannah watched him go, heart thudding in her chest—not from regret, but from something far worse: want.
She wasn't sorry.
And if Jace Coulter thought one time was enough… he had no idea what kind of wildfire he'd just lit.