Or maybe I don’t hate it at all.
When I finally manage to speak, my voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.
“…You’re completely insane.”
His breath brushes my temple.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
A smile I feel more than see.
“But you’re not far behind.”
“Yes.”
The word comes out broken, almost choked.
And suddenly I don’t know if I’m answering him or the part of my brain that has finally decided to stop fighting.
My hand—traitor that it is—rests against his chest.
Warm.
Wet.
Solid.
My fingers slide along his collarbone before I even realize what I’m doing.
Cohen inhales softly.
His fingers hook under my chin, lifting it just enough to force my gaze up to his.
And Cohen Becker—the man who short-circuits me, irritates me, fascinates me, completely dismantles my mental balance—looks at me like I’m the only anchor in a storm.
“I’m going to regret opening my mouth right now, but…” His voice is rough. He pauses, swallows. “You don’t want this, Sloane. Let’s get out of here.”
Oh, he is absolutely going to regret opening his mouth.
“Don’t. You. Dare. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. Becker.”
And then I give in.
Before I can think.
Before fear can win.
Before what’s right outweighs what I want.
I kiss him.
I surge forward, clinging to him without restraint, and he responds instantly—arms locking around me, mouths colliding, heat and urgency exploding between us.
Water streams over our bodies, slick and burning, turning every point of contact electric.
His hands frame my face, fierce and careful all at once.
