With the next breath—one that did nothing for him but add to the reservoir of her scent filling his chest—both her hand, held out in front of him, and the other gripping the soft fabric of his coat tightened, pulling him in as well as down to her height, fingers curled around the collar of his jacket. Her lips found his in a way that was too comfortable, as though she had been created to do nothing but that, to kiss his lips and be kissed by him in return. It was long, warm, intimate. A kiss they had no business sharing. Not yet. Not here. Not at all. And yet it felt not only exhilerating, it felt right. It felt necessary. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t even desperate. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget to breathe, heat burning dangerously close to your core, threatening to set your very soul ablaze. And as she turned, pulling him with her, she pushed herself onto the desk where he had built his little stack of books, never breaking the kiss even just for a second. Getting lost, the same way he did, standing between her legs, kissing her the way lovers did. So deep, so consuming, that Gen could hear his heart hammering against his chest like a war drum. It matched her own pulse; she could feel it all too vividly in the small space between the highest part of her inner thighs, sticky, moist and sweet.