The gossips follow his gaze, and their eyes widen in horror as they see me tucked in the corner with Kitty.
Then he’s walking—no, prowling—toward me. Three strides across the diner, his boots heavy on the linoleum, his eyes never leaving mine.
Everything else falls away. All I see is him. Coming for me. As if I’m the only person in the diner. The only person in the world.
He reaches our booth. Doesn’t slow down.
He cups my face—calloused palms, careful grip—and before I can process, before I can think, before I can do anything except exist in this moment?—
His mouth is on mine.
Not gentle. Not asking. Claiming.
I should push him away. I should be furious that he’s doing this here, now, in front of everyone who just called me desperate and unwanted. I should?—
His tongue flicks across my lips, and my brain whites out.
He tastes like black coffee and something darker underneath—want, maybe. Need. His thumbs stroke my cheekbones as if I’m precious, breakable, worth being careful with. But his mouthdevours mine like I’m necessary. Like I’m air and he’s been drowning.
He leans over me, one hand braced on the booth now. I smell leather and soap and something underneath that’s uniquely him. My whole body pulls toward his like gravity shifted and he’s the new center of everything.
Tilting my head, he deepens the kiss. A soft, needy, mortifying sound escapes me. He swallows it. Takes it. Makes it his.
Somehow, my hands are twisted in his shirt. I don’t care. I can’t think. Heat pools low in my belly and spreads through my thighs, sparking my entire body to life like a live wire. I want to climb him. I want to crawl inside this moment and never leave.
When he pulls back, his breathing is ragged. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His voice comes out rough enough to sand wood.
“Anyone else got opinions about my woman?” He doesn’t look away from me. Doesn’t need to. The words carry across the silent diner like a thunderclap. “Or are we done here?”
Dead silence.
Forks drop. Coffee cups freeze in mid-air. Kitty’s eyes are as wide as saucers.
The “mean girls” have gone pale.
“I need to get back to work,” I force through swollen lips, tearing my eyes from his to look at Kitty. “I’ll text you later.”
My eyes spit fire as I return my gaze to the man who just wrecked me with one kiss. “A word outside, please.”
I don’t wait to see if he follows. I don’t look at the mean girls as I leave the diner.
The August sun beats down on my shoulders, and gravel crunches under my boots as I stalk across the parking lot.
“Your woman?” I spin to face him as I reach my car, the words ripping out of me. “I’m not—you can’t just?—”
“I know.” His voice is rough, and his hands are clenched at his sides as if he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for me again.
I wait for the apology. The backtrack.
“I’m not sorry.”
I stare at him. “You should be.”
“I know,” he repeats.
He steps toward me, then stops. Tendons stand out in his neck. “But I’d do it again. I’d do it every damn day if it meant they’d stop looking at you like that. Talking about you like that.”
My chest aches at the rawness of his voice. “That’s not your call to make.”
