Collins stopped breathing.
The words "Got you" echoed in his skull, completely short-circuiting his logic.
His hands, which had been hovering over her waist, finally dropped. He tentatively, almost reverently, wrapped his arms around her lower back.
The entire theater erupted into a chaotic symphony of gasps and frantic whispers.
Brandt, standing in the aisle, lost his mind. He shoved past an usher, sprinting toward the front row. Two massive security guards intercepted him, slamming him hard against the wall.
Felicity slowly lifted her head from Collins' neck.
She framed his sharp, tense jawline with both hands. Her thumbs brushed against his skin.
Her eyes were red and wet, but they burned with a terrifying, absolute certainty. She stared directly at his lips.
Collins' pupils dilated. He realized exactly what she was about to do. His instinct to protect his heavily guarded privacy flared, and he started to turn his head away.
Felicity didn't let him.
She gripped his jaw tightly, tilting his face back, and crashed her lips onto his.
The impact sent a violent jolt of electricity straight down Collins' spine.
The camera flashes exploded into a blinding strobe light, turning the theater into daylight.
On the massive broadcast screens, the kiss was magnified for tens of millions of viewers.
For one second, Collins remained completely stiff. Then, the obsession he had buried for ten years violently ripped through his restraints.
He took over.
His large hand swept up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her perfectly styled hair. He pulled her flush against his chest and deepened the kiss with brutal, punishing intensity.
His tongue parted her lips, tasting the salt of her tears, claiming her mouth with a dominant, possessive rhythm that left her breathless.
Felicity's hands slid to his broad shoulders, clutching his jacket to keep from falling as he kissed the air out of her lungs.
The sexual tension radiating from them was so thick it practically choked the people sitting in the adjacent seats.
Brandt watched his fiancée being devoured by his worst enemy. A guttural scream of humiliation ripped from his throat.
After thirty seconds of a kiss that felt like it was melting the room, Collins finally tore his lips away.
They were both panting. A thin, glistening thread of saliva connected their swollen lips before breaking.
Collins' eyes were pitch black with desire. He raised his thumb and roughly wiped a smear of her red lipstick from the corner of her mouth.
Without a word, he stood up, pulling her up with him.
He stripped off his custom Tom Ford suit jacket and threw it over her shoulders. The heavy fabric engulfed her, hiding her exposed skin from the ravenous cameras.
It was a blatant, territorial claim.
Before Felicity could adjust the jacket, Collins bent down and scooped her up into his arms.
He carried her bridal style. The heavy star-gradient gown cascaded over his arm.
Felicity rested her head against his chest. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a war drum. A genuine smile touched her lips.
Collins turned toward the side exit. His eyes were lethal.
The crowd parted instantly. The sheer, terrifying aura radiating from the billionaire forced everyone to step back.
Brandt finally broke free from the guards and lunged into the aisle, pointing a shaking finger at Collins. "Put her down! You son of a bitch!"
Collins didn't even break his stride. He looked at Brandt like he was looking at a dead rat on the sidewalk.
"Scram," Collins ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority.
Brandt froze, physically pinned down by the sheer weight of Collins' stare.
Collins carried Felicity through the heavy metal side doors, kicking the push-bar open with his boot.
Outside, a horde of paparazzi swarmed like locusts.
Collins' private security detail instantly formed a human wall, violently shoving the cameras back.
The heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the flashes and the screaming, leaving them in the dim, quiet backstage corridor.
