"How much have you had to drink?" His eyes flick past me toward the counter where I know the tequila bottle sits, still mostly full.
"Stop," I draw out, pressing my hand against his chest.
He looks back at me, jaw set, waiting. I know exactly why he thinks I'm crazy. Hell, Iamcrazy. I pull him in and then push him away. I opened up the night we kissed then made a flippant comment that made him think it was for show. And just now, I apologized like it was a mistake. This morning… God, this morning at yoga, pressed against him, wanting him so badly I could barely breathe, and then what happened after…I pushed again.
The man doesn't know how long I'll let him have me before I cut the cord. Before fear wins and I run. That's why I have to get this out. All of it.
"I kissed you because it felt right. Because I wanted to." My voice is steady and certain. "It was never part of keeping up the act. That kiss was real. The first one, this one, all real."
He stares at me, trying to decide if he believes me. I can see the war happening behind his eyes, the want to believe warring with the evidence of every time I've shut him out.
Then, slowly, something shifts in his expression. The corner of his mouth quirks up, just barely. "So you get to kiss me anytime you want, huh?"
A slow smile spreads across my face, matching his. "Yes," I answer, letting the coyness creep into my voice, feeling the tension shift from painful to electric.
His hand reaches for my waist, fingers spreading against my hip as he pulls me close. The move sends heat racing through my veins. Our bodies align, chest to chest, hip to hip, and I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
"Does that work both ways, then?" His voice has dropped to that low rumble that does things to me, and his thumb traces small circles against my waist through the fabric of my shirt. My breath catches, and suddenly, the pantry feels impossibly warm. I can feel every inch of him pressed against me, can see the heat in his eyes, the slight flush on his cheekbones. His eyes drop to my mouth. "Because if you let me," he murmurs, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down my spine, "I might not ever stop."
I still can't speak. Can't think. Can only feel the rough pad of his thumb against my hip, the solid warmth of him, the way my heart is racing, the way every nerve ending in my body has come alive. So I don't say anything. I just look at him, let him see everything I can't put into words written across my face: the want, the fear, the decision to stop running.
His mouth crashes against mine, and this kiss is different from all the others. It's not tentative or questioning. It's claiming, consuming, like he's been holding back, and finally hedoesn't have to anymore. His hand tightens in my hair as he angles me right where he wants me to deepen our kiss.
I kiss him back with everything I have, my fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His other hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me against him until there's no space left between us. He tastes like mint and possibility, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, my knees actually go weak. He must feel it because his arm tightens around me, holding me up, holding me to him.
I'm drowning in him, in the sensation of his mouth on mine, the way his hand has moved to cradle the back of my head, the solid strength of him surrounding me. Everything else fades away. There's no merger, no secrets, no fear. Just this. Just us. His lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, down to that sensitive spot just below my ear, and I gasp, my head falling back to give him better access.
"Asha," he breathes against my skin, and the way he says my name makes my stomach flip.
"Tri—" I start, but then his mouth is back on mine, and whatever I was going to say dissolves into another kiss.
I lose track of time. Of where we are. Of everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the way he kisses me like I'm oxygen and he's been suffocating.
"Dinner is ready!" Dar's voice cuts through the haze, warm and amused, carrying clearly through the pantry door.
We break apart instantly, both of us breathing hard. Trigger's forehead drops to mine, his eyes still closed, his hand still tangled in my hair.
"Fuck," he whispers, and I almost laugh because it's exactly what I'm thinking.
"We should—" I start.
"Yeah." But he doesn't move. Neither do I.
I can still feel the ghost of his lips on mine, can still taste him. My heart is hammering, my skin flushed, and I know I must look thoroughly kissed.
"They're going to know," I murmur.
His eyes open, meeting mine, and there's heat there still but also something softer. Something that looks a lot like happiness. "Good," he says simply.
"Good?"
"Yeah." His thumb traces my swollen bottom lip, and I have to fight not to kiss him again. "You're mine, sweetheart." His eyes search mine for an objection, and when it doesn't come, he says, "Come on." His hand slides down my arm to catch my fingers, lacing them with his. "Before she comes looking for us."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TRIGGER
Isettle back into my chair as Santiago finishes his story about Rohan's first attempt at bullfighting when he was twelve, something about a neighbor's goat and a red tablecloth. Even Asha is laughing, and I let myself enjoy the sound. We've both been a ball of nerves since we said our vows, and hearing her laugh feels like a weight has been lifted. Her laugh is my happiness, and on the heels of that kiss we shared in the kitchen, I can't help but feel hopeful that things are changing between us.
