"Try the truth." My voice is flat. "That would be refreshing."
He flinches.
"I picked up your phone that first day we met in the therapy room." His green eyes meet mine, and I see genuine remorse there. Or maybe he's just a better actor than I thought. "After you ran out, I saw your phone on the bench and grabbed it before anyone else could."
Even though I’d guessed as much, the confirmation still feels like a punch to the gut.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to talk to you and get to know you." The words come faster now. "I called your emergency contact, Sloane, and lied to her about finding it outside. Told her to call me King because I didn't want you to know it was me. Not yet."
"So you lied from the very beginning."
"I was intrigued by the way you stood up to me and looked at me in that room. I wanted to know the real you."
I snort. "By catfishing me. You created an entire persona to manipulate me into trusting you."
"It wasn't manipulation. Everything I said as King was real. Those were my words, my feelings…"
He steps closer. I should back away, but my feet won’t move. I force myself to meet his gaze.
"Except you were lying about who you were." I lean forward. "You watched me fall in love with someone who didn't exist while you pursued me as Declan. You had all the power, information. All the control. And I had nothing."
"I fell in love with you,” he says, voice raw. "I fell in love with your mind through those texts, and then I fell in love with everything else when I kissed you. When I touched you. When you let me inside your body and trusted me with your heart."
"Don't you dare romanticize what you did." The word come out strangled.
But he's still moving closer, backing me against the wall, like he can't help being drawn to me any more than I can help the way my body responds.
"I'm not trying to romanticize it. I'm trying to make you understand."
"There's nothing to understand. You lied. You manipulated me."
"Ivy…"
His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along my jaw. I should slap it away. Should tell him to go to hell. Instead, I lean into the touch, hating myself for it. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and a sound escapes me—half gasp, half whimper. His eyes darken at the noise.
"I never stopped wanting you," he whispers, leaning closer. "Never stopped thinking about the way you taste, the sounds you make when I touch you here." His other hand settles on my hip, thumb brushing the skin just above my waistband. "Or here."
"Stop."
But the word has no force behind it.
"Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't think about my hands on your body, my mouth on your lips"
I surge forward and kiss him.
It's angry and desperate and wrong, so wrong. But the moment our lips connect, fire explodes through my veins. His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this.
Wants me.
I kiss him like I'm trying to hurt him, teeth catching his bottom lip. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me and settling between my thighs.
His tongue sweeps against mine, dominant and demanding. One hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head back to give him better access. The other slides under my shirt, fingers splaying across my ribs.
I should push him away.
Instead, my hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. My leg hooks around his hip, pressing against the hard length of him.
