And it pissed me off.
Because if she wasn’t backing down, neither was I.
I stepped forward, closing the last of the space between us. “Then tell me, Vi. What exactly am I supposed to do with that?”
She swallowed, her lips parting.
I should’ve stepped back. Should’ve thrown up some bullshit defense and walked away.
But I didn’t.
Because she was right there, breathing me in, looking up at me with those dark, fucking eyes, and I?—
I kissed her.
Violet sucked in a sharp breath, hands fisting in my t-shirt, climbing me like she’d been waiting for this as long as I had. I picked her up and pressed her against my bedroom door.
Days of tension, of ignoring this, of pretending I didn’t want her more than I wanted my next breath... all of it snapped. Her lips parted beneath mine, soft and warm, her body melting into me like she was made for me.
A low groan tore from my throat as her body slotted against mine like we’d done this a hundred times before.
I deepened the kiss, claiming her.
Her hands slid up, fingers threading into my hair, nails scraping just enough to make my balls ache. I bit her lip in return and she gasped, her body arching into mine.
Fuck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
VIOLET
For a man with a split lip, he kissed like he couldn’t feel the injury at all.
I hadn’t expected him to actually cross the line. And I definitely hadn’t expected my entire body to light up the second his mouth touched mine.
No hesitation. No tentative bullshit. Just pure, raw demand that burned through every thin excuse I’d ever used to keep him at arm’s length.
My mind screamed warnings—Julian, the team, Hazel sleeping just feet away—but they were useless against the blood roaring through my veins as his tongue pushed past mine.
I scraped my teeth hard over his lower lip, hitting the cut, drawing a groan that vibrated against my mouth, straight down to that molten ache pulsing low in my belly. My hand fisted in his damp, dark hair, hauling him so close I could feel the drum of his heart through our skin.
Blindly, my fingers fumbled to open the damn door. It swung inward and he barely stumbled. He carried us into the dark room, kicking the door closed. Thankfully, it shut with barely a click.
My back hit the mattress, and he followed me down, caging me beneath his body, his weight settling perfectly between my thighs.
“Griffin,” I gasped against his mouth, his name half warning, half plea.
He ignored me, trailing scorching kisses down my throat, teeth grazing on my collarbone, sucking a mark that would bruise. I moaned, arching helplessly into the pain-pleasure, my fingers raking down the sweat-slick planes of his shoulders. My body had a mind of its own, responding to him in ways I didn’t understand.
“Fuck, you smell like fucking victory,” he growled against my skin. He smelled like rubber, hot metal, sweat, and something purely masculine. It was intoxicating.
Days of tension, of stolen glances and something I refused to name detonated between us. His hand shoved roughly under my thin cotton sleep top, calloused palm rasping over bare skin, setting fire along my ribs and making my stomach muscles jump.
I should stop this. Push him away.
Instead, I pulled him closer, swallowing his groan as our hips aligned, the hard ridge of him pressing exactly where I needed. My legs tightened around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. Heat bloomed low and fierce in my belly, fanned by the rough drag of his stubble against the curve of my neck as he worked lower.
“Oh, you feel that?” His voice was a thick growl against the damp skin of my collarbone. The rumble vibrated straight to my already throbbing center. His hips rolled, grinding the hardproof of his desire against mine. “That’s a week of you fucking around in my head, making me want you.”
