"I do trust you."
"Then let me handle this. Let me be the one who worries about the dark sedan and the threats and all the things that go bump in the night. You focus on your work, on your deadline, on your life." His free hand cups my face. "Let me protect you. It's all I know how to do."
I want to argue.
Want to demand more information, more transparency, more of the burden he's carrying alone.
But I can see how much it costs him to ask—this man who was trained to be a weapon, asking me to let him be my shield.
"Okay," I whisper. "But we're talking about this later. All of it. I don't want secrets between us."
"Later," he agrees. "I promise."
He kisses me then—soft and sweet and full of things neither of us is ready to say.
When we pull apart, the dark sedan is still there, watching.
But somehow, with his hand in mine, it doesn't seem quite as terrifying.
"Come on," I say, tugging him toward the door. "Let's go downstairs."
The basement is cool and quiet, a sanctuary from the noise above.
I don't turn on the lights.
The last of the sunset filters through the window well, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow.
RJ follows me to the bedroom, and when I turn to face him, his expression makes my breath catch.
Hunger. Want. Need.
But also hesitation, like he's waiting for permission.
I give it to him by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss.
He responds instantly, his hands finding my waist, my hips, pulling me flush against him.
But when he tries to deepen the kiss, to take control like he always does, I push him back.
"Not this time," I say against his lips. "This time, I'm in charge."
His pupils blow wide. "Dalla?—"
"Do you trust me?"
The same question he asked me on the porch.
His answer is immediate. "Yes."
"Then sit the fuck down."
I push him toward the bed.
He goes, settling on the edge of the mattress, looking up at me with an expression that's equal parts anticipation and wariness.
"Hands on the bed," I instruct. "You don't touch me until I say you can."
His jaw flexes.
