I drag a hand through my hair, water still dripping from the ends. “I remember pieces.”
“Pieces,” she repeats, bitter. “Would you have actually looked for me, or—?” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but I can hear the hurt in her voice. It’s like a slap in the face—the thought that she might havewantedme to find her.
But something deep inside me, some thorn, stops me from telling her I did look. That I hoped…
I move closer to her. She stiffens but doesn’t run—not yet. Her scent curls around me, warm, spiced. Her memory uncoils in my mind, sudden and visceral: her body under mine, her nails in my shoulders, the way she whisperedpleasebefore I fucked her.
I inhale sharply. She notices. Her eyes flick to my mouth.
A mistake.
The last string of restraint frays.
“Roxanne.”
Her name tastes like sin in my mouth. I want to chant it as I fuck her again, over and over, making her mine. The want, theneedto possess her rises in me like a wave.
She spins toward the door, but I catch her wrist—not hard, just enough. She freezes, breathing fast.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Makari, don’t.”
“Why?” I step into her space. Her back hits the wall again. The heat between us spikes into something savage.
She looks up at me, her eyes bright with fear, anger, or want. Maybe all three. Her voice comes out ragged. “Because this is a bad idea.”
“Most good things are.”
Her breath stutters, and I see the exact moment her defenses falter. Her gaze eases to my throat, then lower. My body responds instantly, violently, recognizing her before my mind can catch up.
God, I’m already undone. Hard and throbbing for her. One look at her and I’m back in that vault, pulling her against me in the darkness, needing her like oxygen. The only thing that could cut through the haze of the drugs and alcohol.
Seven years and nothing—no drink, no woman, no vice—has ever hit me like she does right now.
“Roxy…” I brace one hand against the wall beside her head, caging her in. “If you don’t want this,” I murmur, “you better run.My little hare.”
Her breath catches. A single drop of rain slides down her cheek and lands on her chest. Unable to stop myself, I dip down and lick it off, dragging my tongue up to her pounding pulse. She doesn’t move.
I lower my voice to a growl. “I can’t promise I won’t catch you.”
She doesn’t run.
She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me to her, and my mouth crashes onto hers. The kiss detonates between us, something more desperate about it now that we recognize one another.
Seven years of denial, half-memories and sleepless nights. Of wondering why she haunted me for so long when I didn’t even know what her face looked like. It all explodes in one violent collision of lips, breath, heat. Her hands drag through my hair. Mine slide down to her waist, her hips, her curves—the ones I remembered without remembering, the ones I dreamed about without knowing why.Thisis why she’s been driving me crazy.
I lift her. Her legs tighten around me on instinct, and she gasps into my mouth, the sound nearly buckling my knees. When we reach the wall again, I hold her there with my body, my hands, devouring every inch of her I can reach.
She pulls at my shirt. I push her jacket off her shoulders. She’s warm beneath the damp fabric, soft, alive.
“Mak,” she whispers, and my vision goes red around the edges.
I kiss her again, harder, letting years of hunger pour out uncontrolled.
There is no logic left. No storm. Just her, the heat pulsing from between her legs against my aching dick, her nails digging into the back of my neck as she sucks my bottom lip between hers. I groan into her mouth, thrusting my hips once, hard.
My hands slide under her shirt, and her breath catches. She meets me with equal force, matching pressure for pressure, want for want. Her fingers travel down my chest, yank up my shirt and make me shiver as they dig between my abs and my belt.
It’s reckless, dangerous, and the most alive I’ve felt in years.
