"No," I say roughly. "It stopped being just a job the second you walked onto that terrace in that fucking dress and looked at me like I was worth something."
Her eyes moisten. “Blake?—"
"I can't keep doing this." The words tear out of me. “I can't keep pretending like I don't want you, and I won’t keep walking away when every instinct in me says to claim you, protect you, keep you so close nothing can touch you."
"Then don't." One of her hands fists my shirt while she lays the other softly against the side of my face. "Don't walk away. Don't pretend. I'm right here, Blake. I'm choosing this. Choosing you."
"You don't know what you're choosing."
"I know exactly what I'm choosing." She pulls me closer, eliminating the last inches between us. "I'm choosing the man who burned a warehouse to save girls he didn't know. Who walked away from his family rather than compromise his soul. Who looks at me like I'm poisonous but wants me anyway."
"You’re not poisonous, but you’re definitely dangerous."
"Good." Her voice drops and goes husky. "So are you. Maybe that's why this works."
I'm losing the battle. I can feel my control slipping, my carefully maintained distance crumbling. And if my dick gets a vote, he’s basically saying we lost the game before he even got to get up to bat.
"Peyton." My voice is a warning. "If I kiss you, then we will have crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.”
“Cross it already.”
That's all the permission I need.
I kiss her like I'm drowning and she's air. It’s hard, hungry, claiming. My hand wraps around her ponytail, angling her head back, taking her mouth the way I've wanted to since she smiled at me on that terrace.
She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, like defiance or desire. Her hands are everywhere, exploring, demanding, giving as good as she gets.
This isn't gentle. Isn't careful. I don’t even understand how I could want a woman I’ve just met like this, but stranger things have happened, and I’m sick of following rules that Nonno made for this family back when there was no internet and a carton of eggs was fifty cents.
I press Peyton harder against the wall, needing her closer, needing to feel every curve, every breath, every sound she makes when I bite her bottom lip and she gasps against my mouth. I slide my hand behind her and squeeze her jean-clad ass, then carefully slide my fingers lower and in between her thighs.
"Blake." My name on her lips sounds like prayer and profanity.
I press the seam of her jeans against her pussy and pull back just enough to see her face—lips swollen, eyes dark, chest heaving. I could get addicted to making her feel good. She's beautiful, fierce, and she’s fucking mine. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels inevitable.
"This complicates everything," I say against her mouth.
"I don't care."
"Silas will use it against us."
“I don’t care.”
“That’s your wet pussy talking,” I growl.
“No, it isn’t.” She frames my face with her hands, forces me to look at her. "Stop trying to protect me from this. From us. I'm not fragile. I'm not stupid. And I’m not one of the girls from the warehouse. I'm not going to regret this just because it's complicated or dangerous or inconvenient. And frankly, I’m sick of discussing it.”
“You are, huh?” I can’t help but chuckle.
“Absolutely sick and tired of this debate. Aren’t you?” She kisses me this time, and it’s softer and slower. It feels more intimate. "So either you're all in, or you walk away now. But you don't get to touch me like that and then pretend like we made a mistake because it doesn’t feel like one.”
She's right. She's absolutely right. Fuck it. I’m all in. I probably have been since the moment I stepped between her and Domenic. Maybe even before that.
I kiss her again, quick and hard. “We do this my way. Which means you follow my lead when it comes to safety. You don't take unnecessary risks. You don't challenge armed men when I tell you to run."
"I'm not good at following orders."
"I've noticed, but we'll work on it. Those are some of my favorite lessons to teach.”
