Page 43 of The Clinch
“Come on. Let’s go mingle some more.”
I take it, and we head back inside.
The night spillsonto the steps as we exit. Cameras surge forward, voices overlapping.
“Lionheart!”
“How long have you been together?”
We stop, or maybe he makes the choice and my body follows.
“Liz, how does it feel to be with the champ?”
Another voice cuts through, sharper.
“Can we get a kiss for the cameras?”
Every possible answer collides at once. I open my mouth, but Leo’s hand settles at my waist. He doesn’t look at the reporters. He looks at me.
It’s a question—quiet, contained—and it lasts half a second. I could dodge. Laugh it off. Turn my head and let him play charming.
Instead I think about the balcony, the way he said “stunning”like it cost him something, the way the whole city has been trying to name me all night.
Let them.
I give him the barest nod.
His hand tightens slightly, a warning and a promise, and then he leans in.
His mouth is warm and firm against mine, lips fitting like they already know the shape. I taste mint and something darker underneath—coffee, cedar, the faint bite of adrenaline he hasn’t fully burned off yet.
No tongue. No rush.
Just pressure. Just control.
One hand stays at my waist. The other lifts to my jaw, steadying me, like he’s anchoring the moment instead of taking it.
The rest of the world drops out under the contact. The noise fades. The crowd disappears. There is only the solid certainty of his mouth and the way he’s touching me.
When he pulls back, it’s slow, like he has to tell his body to do it. His forehead rests against mine for a single breath.
His hand at my waist tightens, hard enough to feel, not hard enough to show.
“Fuck,” he whispers, so quiet only I hear it.
The cameras explode. I barely register them.
The car ridehome is quiet.
Leo drives with one hand on the wheel. The other rests on the console, fingers tapping once before going still. Neither of us speaks.
I watch the city slide past the window, lights smearing into color. My body keeps replaying the kiss without my permission—the way his mouth lingered, the way that whisperedfucksounded like it surprised him. The way his forehead rested against mine like he needed the second.
The way he shut that man down without hesitation.
At the red light, his hand shifts on the console. Not touching me. Just close enough that I feel the warmth anyway.
“That was good,” I say, because the silence is starting to feel like a test. “For the photos.”
