I should tell him to go.I should say his name like a warning, shove him back, remember he’s a priest and I’m a liar.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
My silence screams louder than any command I could give.
His lips crash into mine—violent, desperate, claiming.
There’s nothing soft about it. No gentle testing. No hesitation. Its impact—everything coiled between us detonating at once. His mouth is hot and furious, and I meet him just as hard, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt to yank him closer.
Fabric bunches under my hands as his muscles tense beneath my grip. He growls into the kiss, a low, frustrated sound that sends a bolt of heat down my spine.
His chest slams into mine, pinning me harder against the wall. He cages me in with an arm braced beside my head, his body a barricade of heat and strength. I arch into him, dragged by something I don’t have a name for.
Forbidden.Addictive.Inevitable.
I taste blood—maybe his lip, maybe mine. I don’t care. The only things holding me up are the brick at my back and Santino pressed against my front, kissing me like he wants to erase everyman who ever hurt me and become the only sin I can’t repent for.
I’m not supposed to want this.Not with him.Not here.Not now.
But the truth is brutal, humming beneath my skin:
I’ve never felt saferthan in the arms of the most dangerous man I know.
Heat Before the Gunshot
The world narrows to heat and shadow.
Santino presses me back against the wall, the alley swallowing us whole. The brick scrapes my spine through my clothes—cold, rough, unyielding—but I barely feel it. He’s flush against me, solid and burning, blotting out the night, the danger, the unconscious body on the ground. Everything dissolves except the weight of him and the way he moves like he’s claiming something he has no right to take.
His mouth trails fire down my throat.
A gasp breaks out of me the second his lips brush the curve of my neck. Heat sinks into my skin like he’s branding me, marking territory he shouldn’t even be touching. His breath is hot, uneven, frantic. His stubble drags along my pulse, each scrape sharp enough to make my knees weaken.
A sound slips from me—quiet, broken, involuntary.
My hands pull him closer.
I don’t remember reaching for him, but my fingers twist into his shirt, dragging him in like I’m terrified he’ll vanish if I let go. His chest vibrates with a low growl, the sound rumbling through me like a warning and a promise.
We’re breathing as if we’ve been drowning for years.
Because we have.Because this—whatever this is—feels like breaking the surface after being held under too long.
“I should confess this,” he whispers against my skin.
The words ghost down my throat, sinful and trembling.
“You should,” I breathe.
My voice barely exists, more plea than answer. My head tips back against the brick, exposing my neck completely, giving him access, giving him everything without thinking or caring. Letting him see exactly how undone I am.
“But you won’t.”
His lips brush my jaw as he says it, and the truth punches straight through me. He’s right. He won’t confess this. He won’t push me away. He won’t pretend after what just happened.
And I don’t want him to.
