I lift my chin and flash my eyes at him. “Don’t get proud.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell him — steel and grease and something warm underneath. “Too late.”
My heart kicks the inside of my ribs and my skin goes hot under the sheet. I hate that he’s here in my space like he belongs. I hate that a part of me wants him to. And the rest of me? The rest of me wants to drop the sheet and reenact last night.
“Evan,” I warn.
“Molly.”
Hearing my name in his mouth does something dangerous to me; I should back up; I should back up and put on clothes and kick him out of my space.
Instead, I stand my ground.
His gaze drops to my lips. “You’re mad.”
“Obviously.”
He leans in just slightly, his voice drops to a challenge. “Then tell me to leave.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out, and his eyes flare, like he feels the surrender I won’t admit to.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”
I shove a hand into his chest — not hard, not enough to move him, just enough to prove I’m still in control — but he catches my wrist in a grip that’s not forceful, but certain.
The heat of his palm wraps around me, and my breath catches.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, but my body doesn’t mean it.
“You started this in high school.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, but it’s weak.
He takes the sheet edge between his fingers, tugs it down just enough to make my pulse explode, then releases it like he’s teasing a fuse.
Then he kisses me.
Not tentative.
Not unsure.
Like he already decided he’s taking what he wants.
His kiss tastes like trouble and sunlight and the hunger I’ve been fighting since he moved in across the hall. I grab him by the shirt and kiss him back, furious and needy all at once. Two can play this game.
When we break apart, my chest heaves.
His forehead rests against mine.
“You’re going to break your own rules for me,” he murmurs.
“Don’t get cocky.”
He huffs a laugh. “Too late.”
I step back, forcing air into my lungs, forcing my brain to work. “If this becomes… a thing…”
His eyes sharpen. “A thing?”
