“Confident,” he finishes, hands sliding up my sides, not quite under my shirt but close enough to make my skin spark. “And you’re about to stop thinking.”
I should slap him. Instead, I grab his wrist and drag him down the hall, nearly tripping over my own boots as I go. I slam the door behind us, hard enough to rattle the frame. Light pours through the slatted blinds, painting stripes across the bed and turning every flaw in my apartment — wrinkled sheets, mismatched pillows, laundry basket in the corner — into something raw and exposed.
“This is insane,” I whisper, half to myself.
“You’ve been sane for a long time.”
“I’ve been smart,” I snap, but my voice comes out thin, brittle.
He catches my chin in his hand, thumb against my jaw, touch gentle but absolute. “Smart doesn’t mean numb.”
My cheeks burn. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
He smiles, not unkind. “Wasn’t planning on it.” His gaze flicks to my lips, then back up. “I’m just telling you what I want.”
“And what’s that?” I challenge, but it’s a bluff and we both know it.
Evan leans in, just short of kissing me, letting the anticipation burn. “You. Under me. Saying my name like you mean it.”
Heat floods my chest. I want to spit at him. I want to melt. Instead, I fist his shirt and drag him in. “Arrogant asshole.”
He laughs, low and pleased, and kisses me again. His hands are under my shirt before I realize it, palms spanning my ribs, his thumbs tracing the rise and fall of each shaky breath. I try to wrench his shirt off at the same time he tries to do the same to mine, and we get tangled, arms and elbows and lips and laughter, until he pins me to the wall with his weight and just holds me there, chest to chest.
“Arms up,” he growls.
I glare at him, but my body’s already obeying, hands over my head as he peels my shirt off with a smooth, practiced motion. It’s humiliating how easy I make it.
“Bossy,” I mutter, even as goosebumps chase across my skin.
He tosses the shirt aside and drinks me in, eyes roaming slow and hungry. “You like it.”
“I like a challenge.”
His hands slide to the waistband of my jeans, fingers pausing just under the button. “Tell me to stop,” he says, and for the first time his voice is tight, like he’s actually ready to let go if I say the word.
I stare him dead in the eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
His smile falters, replaced by something raw and genuine, and he kisses me again, softer this time, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other undoes my jeans with brutal efficiency.
I grapple at his belt. “Your turn.”
He lets me for a moment. Lets me undo the buckle, slide the leather free, pop the button and drag down the zipper. Only when I push them lower does he grab my wrists and pin them, wrists over my head against the wall, and he presses in until I can’t tell if I want to knee him in the balls or let him split me open.
He nudges me backward, stumbling and breathless, until the backs of my knees hit the mattress and I drop onto the bed. Hefollows, knee on the edge, climbing over me with a deliberate slowness, like he’s giving me time to protest.
I don’t.
He kisses down my jaw, my throat, the sharp bone of my collar, sucking bruises into my skin like he means to mark me. I arch into him, nails raking across his back. He hisses and bites my shoulder in retaliation.
“Evan—”
He lifts his head, eyes dark and wild. “Do you remember high school?”
My pulse spikes. I do, and I don’t want to. “Don’t—”
“I remember,” he says, voice gone thick. “I remember how you looked at me in the parking lot, like you wanted to bite and run all at once.” His hand slides lower, fingers trailing down my stomach, teasing the edge of my underwear. “I remember how you said you’d never get involved in a real relationship, how you were too smart for that shit.”
I glare at him, but my glare is a whimper. “I was eighteen.”
