It's not graceful. It's not romantic. It's desperate and awkward and perfect in a way I can't explain. Every time he moves, I feel it in my spine, in my teeth, in the hollow place behind my ribs that I've spent years trying to pretend doesn't exist.
“Harder,” I moan. “Fuck me harder.”
I shift, feeling the thickness of his cock inside me hit somewhere just right. Groaning, I clutch him tight, holding his face to my tits while I grind against him.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and I don't care. I want the marks. I want proof that this happened, that I let someone in, that I stopped running long enough to feel something real.
"Molly, oh fuck, you feel so good," he groans against my skin, and the way he says my name — like a prayer, like a curse, like something sacred and profane all at once — makes my whole body clench around him.
I rock faster, chasing the edge, chasing the oblivion that waits just beyond it. The car creaks and sways. My thighs burn from the angle, from bracing myself against the dash, but I don't stop. Can't stop.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my moans, giving me his. We're a tangle of limbs and breath and want, and somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is dangerous — not the sex, but what it means. What I'm letting it mean.
"Right there," I gasp, and he shifts, adjusting the angle, and suddenly everything goes white at the edges.
I shatter.
It's not quiet. It's not pretty. I cry out against his shoulder, teeth scraping skin, my whole body seizing around him as the orgasm tears through me like wildfire. He follows seconds later, hands bruising my hips, a rough sound wrenched from his throat that I feel more than hear.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe, tangled together in the cramped front seat, the windows completely opaque with condensation. My heart is a wild thing in my chest, trying to escape. His forehead rests against my collarbone, his breath hot and ragged against my skin.
I should pull away. I should make a joke, deflect, retreat behind my walls where it's safe.
Instead, I press my lips to his temple and whisper the most dangerous words I know.
"I love you."
Chapter Twenty
Evan
“I love you.”
It’s the gentlest sentence I’ve ever heard from Molly Rogers, and it lands like a roadside bomb. For a moment I just sit there, stunned, in the rattling hush of my junker sedan. I register the sweet tang of sweat, the way her hair is wild and knotted from my hands, the imprint of teeth on her lower lip — mine, or hers, or both, I couldn’t say. My heart’s thumping so hard it’s almost a physical ache, a fist grinding up under my ribs. We’re still fused, skin on skin, knees and hips tangled, the gearshift digging into my thigh. The windows are a steamy white-out, the world erased except for the two of us, and the words she’s unleashed.
She said it first. She said it fast, like if she didn’t get it out it would rot her from the inside. For the first time in years, maybe the first time in my life, I want to say it too. Not as a ploy, not just for the mission, not even because it would make her easier to use. I want to say it because in her arms, in this car, for one splintered second, I believe it.
Molly’s breathing calms, every exhale cooled by the foggy glass. She shudders a little, and I feel the goosebumps chase up her arms. She tucks her chin and waits for what I’ll say next. I should tell her the truth. That I’m a weapon aimed at her world, and the moment I’m done, she’ll never trust another living soul.
But I don’t have a heart.
I have June’s face and a timer in my head. If I don’t deliver, she’s dead.
“I love you, too.” It comes out gutted, more air than sound, as if my chest has been holding it hostage since the moment I saw her last.
Her expression goes soft and open, more vulnerable than I’ve earned. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Then she laughs, low and shaky — a noise like she’s just found the punchline to a joke.
I cup her face, and she leans in, letting her forehead drop to mine.
Her eyes are glassy — teary, not from sadness, but because her whole damn heart is trying to push its way out.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
I slide my hand up the back of her neck and pull her in again, slow this time, deliberate. “Yeah.”
She kisses me as if she’s testing whether I’ll disappear if she closes her eyes. Like she’s waiting for the moment the floor drops out. But I won’t let her pull away, won’t let this moment vanish; I make it steady; I kiss her deeply, and I make it real.
Because part of me means it.
