She pauses, and I wait, sensing she has more to say.
"But at some point, I realized it doesn't really matter. Maybe horrible things did happen to him. Maybe his father was worse than he is. But we're all adults, making our own choices. Our childhood can only be used as a defense for so long before we have to take accountability for who we've become."
Her words hit closer to home than I'd like to admit. I've spent years blaming my father for the man I am today. The coldness, the violence, the inability to form connections. But at what point does that excuse expire?
"You're probably right," I concede.
"You're proof of that," she says, surprising me. "Whatever your father did, whatever he was, you didn't become him. You broke the cycle."
I can't help the bitter laugh that escapes me. "I'm a violent, dangerous man who makes his living through intimidation and sometimes worse. Not exactly a paragon of moral victory."
"You might be violent and dangerous," she counters, "but you don't hurt innocent people. You use that darkness to protect, not to terrorize. That makes all the difference."
"Just lucky I have more suitable targets," I mutter, but her words affect me more than I want to admit.
She falls silent, and to my surprise, leans her head against my shoulder, the gesture so casual and trusting it leaves me momentarily speechless.
When was the last time someone leaned on me like this? Not for protection or out of fear or obligation, but simply because they wanted to be close? I can't remember. Maybe never.
The moment stretches, peaceful and perfect in a way I've never experienced before. The night air, the stars overhead, the woman beside me… I could stay like this forever and count myself a lucky man.
I glance down at her profile, illuminated by the faint moonlight, and goddamn, she's beautiful. Not in the artificial, made-up way of the women who usually catch my eye in bars, but in a real, human way that makes my chest ache. My cock twitches in response, hardening against my jeans, and I shift slightly to hide my body's reaction to her nearness.
Amelia places her hand over mine, her touch light. "Do you regret it?" she asks softly. "Helping us?"
The question throws me, and I stumble over my response. "No. Of course not. Why would you think that?"
"Because you seem afraid to look at me," she says, still not meeting my gaze. "Because you tense up whenever I get close. If you've changed your mind about helping us, I'd rather know now."
"I'm not afraid," I say, perhaps too forcefully. To prove it, I turn to face her fully, though she's still looking ahead at the darkness beyond the porch.
"Then what's the problem?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The problem," I say, my voice dropping low, "is this."
Before I can think better of it, I cup her face in one hand, resting the other on her thigh, and capture her lips with mine. I expect her to push me away, to recoil from my presumption. Instead, she melts into me, her lips parting under mine, her hand coming up to grip my arm.
The kiss deepens, our tongues meeting in a hot slide that sends electricity down my spine. She tastes like mint toothpaste, and I'm instantly addicted. I angle her head to deepen the kiss further, a low growl escaping me when she responds with equal hunger.
Time loses meaning as we explore each other, the kiss turning from shy to passionate in heartbeats. Her hand slides up my arm to my shoulder, then to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in the short hair there. I'm hard as stone now, my cock straining painfully against my jeans, demanding attention I know I can't give it.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily, our breath fogging in the cold night air. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from my kiss, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately, though I'm not sorry at all. "I don't want you to think you owe me anything because I'm helping you. That's not why I'm doing this."
"It's not like that," she assures me, her voice husky in a way that makes my cock throb. "I kissed you back because I wanted to."
Christ. Those words might as well be a physical caress for how they affect me.
"Don't tell me that," I groan. "It makes me want things I shouldn't even be thinking about."
Her eyes darken, and to my shock, she grabs the lapels of my cut, pulling herself closer. "Be honest with me," she demands. "Please."
I grit my teeth, torn between what I want and what I know is right. But the way she's looking at me, desperate for truth in a world that's fed her nothing but lies, breaks my resolve.
"I'm seconds away from fucking you right here on this porch," I growl, my voice rough with desire. "From bending you over the railing and pounding into you until you forget every man who came before me. From making you come so hard you'll never forget this night."
Her sharp intake of breath tells me I've shocked her, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, her pupils dilate, her grip on my cut tightening.
