His mouth traces a path down my neck, dragging along the curve of my collarbone. Every breath I take feels sharper, hotter, and I swear I’m going to come undone just from the way he’s devouring me.
Then his mouth is on mine. It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s hard and deep and messy, his lips crashing into mine with a force that steals every rational thought from my brain. His lips press into mine until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t remember why I was angry in the first place. I kiss him back like I need it to survive. Mouth open, breath uneven, tongue meeting his in a rhythm that’s all teeth and heat and raw hunger. I want more. More. I want all of it.
I grab the front of his shirt and crush my body into his. Every inch of me pressed tight against him, chasing the contact like I’llfall apart without it. His hands slide down my back and grip my hips, dragging me closer, locking me against him.
He shifts, presses forward, and I feel his thigh slide between mine. The pressure is immediate. Sharp. Perfect.
I grind down on him without thinking. Desperate. Reckless. My body moves on instinct, aching for friction, for more, for him. I don’t care how unhinged I look. I don’t care if it makes me shameless.
All I care about is the way he groans into my mouth.
His hands move up, rough and sure, sliding over the lace of my bra, and drag the cups down until my breasts spill free into his palms. The air hits my skin, cool and jarring, and then his fingers are on me. He rubs each nipple, slow and deliberate, coaxing the kind of sensation that makes my knees buckle.
I gasp, my back arching into his touch. My body is no longer mine. It’s his, wired to his hands, to the rhythm he sets. Every tug, every pinch sends more heat rushing between my legs. My thighs tighten around the press of his leg as I move against him, chasing the pressure.
His lips begin to slow. The kiss softens, the fire dimming into something deeper, more reverent. The bruising edge melts away, replaced by the kind of tenderness that makes my chest ache.
He kisses me again and again, slower and slower. And then again, even softer. Until it’s no longer about control or hunger or silence. Until it’s just him and me and everything we never say.
Then he stills, leans in, and presses his forehead to mine. His breath is shaky as he pulls in air like he’s trying to calm something inside him, and then he steps back.
When he looks at me, it’s not lust I see—it’s pain. That look in his eyes knocks the breath from my lungs. Like he’s the one breaking now.
“I’m not fucking anyone else, Lo,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. “You’re it for me.” His hand lifts,brushing gently over my bottom lip. The same mouth he kissed raw. The same one he worshiped like it was his to keep. “My favorite place in this world is to be inside you,” he murmurs. “But I won’t touch you again—not like that. Never again. Not until you ask me to.” He steps back slowly, arms raised like he’s surrendering to me. Like I’m the one with the power now. “Not until you’re absolutely sure what you are to me.”
His eyes never leave mine. Not for a second. And then he backs toward the door without breaking that stare. He opens it, steps out, and is gone.
Leaving me standing in the center of the room—bare skin flushed, lips tingling, chest hollow—breathless and aching.
Chapter Twelve
DAMIAN
Idon’t remember walking up the stairs. I don’t remember opening the door. All I know is I was outside watching her walk away from me, and the next second, I was inside, grabbing her by the throat and kissing her like my life depended on it. Her tears were still fresh on her cheeks, salt-streaked reminders of everything I’d broken. I licked them away, tasting every ounce of the pain I’d caused.
When I hit that asshole, she looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was the fucking monster. I don’t think she has any idea how much of a fucking monster I really am.
My hands still tingle from where I touched her. Her skin was warm, soft, trembling with want. I felt her melt into me before she even realized it. That’s what kills me the most. She wanted it. I felt it in the way her mouth opened for me, the way her body arched into mine, the way her breath caught when I shoved my thigh between hers and made her grind on me like she couldn’t help it.
I close her bedroom door behind me and feel the weight of it settle in my chest. The silence is sharp. Everything in me is screaming to go back in, to fall to my knees, to tell hereverything. But I can’t. Because I’m not sure the truth will make her safer. And I’d rather her hate me than bury her.
I drag a hand down my face. My jaw still throbs from where I clenched it too hard. My knuckles are raw from punching that prick who put his hands on her. Nathan. Fucking Nathan. I still want to find him and finish what I started.
And I keep telling myself I can protect her. That I can hold it all together just long enough to get through this. But it’s getting harder to breathe around the lies. Harder to look at her and pretend I’m not unraveling.
I told her I wouldn’t touch her again until she asked. But that doesn’t mean I can stop wanting her. And that sure as hell doesn’t mean I’ll let anyone else near her. Not Clay. Not Nathan. No one. I’ll burn down the world before I let anyone take her from me.
Neve and Bridger are in the kitchen, cleaning up my mess. The destruction hits me fresh. Shattered plates. Smeared sauce. Blood on the counter from where I cut myself. This is who I am. This is what she’s letting into her life. Bridger doesn’t hide the way he looks at me. He never does. His jaw is tight, and there’s a storm in his eyes. He’s always been easy to read—rage all over him like an open wound. Neve, though, glances up from a broken plate and meets my eyes. What she gives me isn’t anger. It’s pity.
And that look guts me.
I nod toward Bridger. "Come with me. We’ve got shit to do."
Bridger steps back from the counter, eyes narrowing. "You’re just going to leave now? After all that?" He looks around the room like he can’t believe I’m serious. "Where’s Marlowe? Is she okay?"
“Of course she’s okay,” I snarl, louder than I mean to. My voice bounces off the cabinets and walls like it’s lookingfor something else to destroy. “Everything I did—every fucking second of it—was to make sure she’d be okay.”
Bridger doesn’t flinch, but his jaw flexes. Neve freezes mid-wipe, cloth hovering over a streak of soy sauce and blood.
