“Say the words.”
“I pinkie promise.”
“That—”
“I pinkie promise that I will talk to Maria.”
He nods, happy with my words, and drops his hand before pulling me back to him and kissing me. His tongue dances with mine, and he groans into me.
“I feel like a naughty teenager again,” he mumbles against my lips.
I grin. “I had the exact same thought.”
His fingers run through my hair, down my back, and he grabs my arse, pulling me to him where his growing length pushes against me.
He tilts my head and deepens the kiss, and every thought, emotion and feeling falls out my head as I breathe him in, tasting every inch of him.
“Fuck.” He rests his forehead on mine, both our breaths ragged. My hand rests on his chest, his heart beating wildly beneath my palm. Just like mine.
“I wish we could stay in here. But I made a pinkie promise.”
He chuckles before kissing me once more and readjusts himself. “I think I’m going to need a minute.”
“Was that part of your plan? Get a hard on so I’d have to face her alone.”
“I can think of more obvious ways that don’t involve me getting blue balls. Like going to bed.”
“You wouldn’t, though. You want to make sure I don’t upset her.”
“I think this conversation is one that will upset you both.” He pulls me to him again and wraps his arms around me as I rest my head on his chest. “For a dangerous person, Lucy, you’ve never looked smaller and more afraid. You need this, even if you don’t know that yet.”
“I do know it,” I admit, and he pulls back. “Don’t look so surprised.” I tweak his nipple, and he laughs.
“I’ll join you in a minute; did you leave your knife in the car?”
I raise my eyebrow at him. “Of course not, andChrist, I’m not going to stab her.” He laughs and I punch him lightly in the stomach. “This is by far your worst pep talk. I’m going now.”
She stands up as I enter the room.
“Are you okay?” she asks, stepping forward before hesitating and sitting back down with a sigh. Her hands knot in her lap, playing with the material of her trousers.
“Good as new,” I answer, looking at my freshly bandaged wound. “He’s become quite good at stitches.”
“He said I’m best not to know.”
“Very true.” A pause, a beat, awkwardness as I stare at her. So much history between us, but unable to say anything. How do I even start this conversation?
“How about that biscuit?” Brilliant—well done, Kara.
She smiles at me and sits down on one of the two-seater sofas. I sit opposite her, the small coffee table sitting between us.
“Here,” she says, holding up a plate.
I take one of my all-time favourites—custard creams.
“Do you want tea?”
“No thanks. These were always my favourite,” I admit, taking a bite and picking at the fallen crumbs as it partially breaks as I eat.
