“I feel safe with you. Even with the growly threats you can’t act on.” Her fingers trace my jaw. The contact feels like being branded. The sweetest agony. “Which is pretty ironic, knowing this is fake.”
“Fake?” I huff a breath and adjust her so she’s straddling my lap. “Trust me, woman, this is as real as it can get.”
And then I prove it, bringing her mouth to mine with bedlam in my lips.
XIII
Dirty Animals
(Lena)
Fourth time’s the charm.
Pretty sure that’s the saying.
Brady’s mouth claims mine with a hunger that speaks louder than any soft words and flowery kisses can. The emotion, the roughness—it’s like a lightning strike reverberating through my nerves.
How angry he is for me.
How much he shares my pain.
How deeply he wants to soothe it like the tide wearing down pure stone.
I’ve never felt anything like it before—this honest fanaticism from a man who wants to defend me. It’s so far beyond my comprehension in a brain that’s been kicked and bruised.
Mom was perfectly kind when I grew up, but she didn’t do much to warn me about men. Aside from Dad, I guess she never had much experience with romance, and with him she got lucky.
That’s why Harry Jay was my teacher. He scarred me. He made me grow a cyst around my heart.
When Harry hurt me, I told myself I’d never give anyone else the chance.
It was too dangerous that way. Too easy to get hurt.
Your heart only shatters once before you’re scrambling to save what’s left, chasing the shredded pieces like loose marbles, trying to prevent them from pulverizing and blowing away.
But Brady doesn’t try to tie me down with pretty words.
He doesn’t undo the damage, because he knows he can’t.
He knows I’m not someone you buy with cheap talk and big promises. Maybe once, in another life, but not anymore.
It’s just his thick, dark hand in my hair, his mouth on mine, his tongue delving against mine with that savage tenderness he’s so good at.
It’s him holding me like I’m more precious than anything he’ll ever own. And Brady Pruitt owns more than I can fathom.
He has an easy claim to high-value women, goddesses who make me look like a dumpster raccoon—bright-eyed, superhuman freaks of nature who could make his life paradise.
But his kiss tells me he isn’t choosing the cakewalk.
He’s choosingme.
If we ever had restraint, it’s obliterated now.
I tug at his clothes desperately, wanting themoff. He’s working at my T-shirt, snarling to get it over my head without breaking the kiss.
It’s a little hilarious, but I’m not laughing when I feel his teeth pulling my bottom lip.
One of us will win, sooner or later.
