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Lev leans in and kisses me anyway.
It is quick and hard and filthy, landing atop the fear and anger and part of me that still goes weak when he touches me. I taste champagne and the mint from his breath and all the things I shouldn’t want from him.
I pull back first and rest my fingers on my lips.
“You’re impossible,” I whisper.
His hand stays on my thigh. “You still came with me.”
I look out the window at the city sliding past and hate how true that is.
My pulse refuses to settle. My skin feels too tight. The shape of his hand burns through my coat, and the truth sits in my lap with my shoes and my shaking fingers.
This could get us both killed, and I still don’t want to walk away.
