“I knew,” I say. “Didn’t mind.”
Her gaze flashes — heat, annoyance, and something softer. Something so foreign to her that her tongue trips every time she names it.
“You’re trouble,” she mutters.
I’m not supposed to be. Not to her. Not like this. To her, I’m supposed to be easy, trustworthy,safe.Someone she can let in,someone she can relax with, someone who’s going to use her to tear her found family apart.
“The feeling’s mutual,” I reply, letting her see the smile in my eyes.
The charge in the room thickens, as if the walls themselves are leaning in to listen. Molly sets her jaw again, then takes a step into my space and grabs the front of my T-shirt. She yanks me down, not hard, but insistent, as if daring me to resist. The kiss she gives isn’t soft or searching. It’s bruising, teeth and tongue, a clash of intent and hunger and something like desperation. I taste the scald of whiskey and the faint salt of her skin, and it nearly undoes me.
She’s trying to prove something. That she’s the one in control. That she’s not broken and never will be. I let her because I want her to win.
But I want her, too. I want her so badly that my fingers twitch at my sides, fighting the urge to haul her closer and pin her to the wall. If I do, though, I’ll lose her. So I stand there and let her dictate the terms.
She breaks the kiss first, lips swollen, eyes flashing. “Are you going to just stand there?” she mutters.
I chuckle, her eyes flash, and my hands go to her hips on instinct, locking her in place without squeezing too tight. I feel the hitch of her breath when my palms settle there — an involuntary give, the smallest tell.
Then my lips take hers and I drop all the restraint that’s been holding me back.
She moans, urgent, deep, then balls her fists and shoves me, just a little. Molly breaks the kiss just long enough to glare up at me. “Don’t keep doing that.”
Her words die as she ends them with a kiss, her tongue sliding against mine, and then, just like that, she breaks us again.
“Don’t what?” I keep my voice low.
“Don’t keep teasing me at work. I have a job to do…”
My laugh is quiet. Short. “You know you love it.”
Her eyes flare. “Evan.”
I kiss her again — slower this time, deliberate, dragging it out until her grip on my shirt changes. Less angry; more needy; pulling me closer, tightening, desperate. I release my hold on her hips, slide my fingertips up her sides, circling the undersides of her breasts to brush her erect nipples through the fabric of her shirt and bra.
She shudders. “Fucking bastard.”
Her fingers slide up my chest, clutch, then clench. Like she’s fighting to remember what it feels like to be held without bracing for pain. I tilt my head and take my time with her mouth until she makes a sound she tries to swallow.
“Molly,” I breathe against her lips.
“Shut up,” she whispers, but it’s shaky. “Just… shut up.”
“And then what?”
She swallows, eyes bright and shy. Her voice quivers, a shaking thing full of lust and nerves. “Take me. Want me. Love me…”
That word again, spoken in this shy, almost fearful tone. She looks at me with wide eyes, almost expecting rejection, as if that word — that one, singular word that means so much, that frightens her so much — will send me running and prove true all those fears that have scarred her ragged heart.
“I will. I do.”
I walk her back two steps until the backs of her thighs bump the edge of my couch. She doesn’t sit. She hooks a boot behind my calf and pulls me closer like she’s the one moving the chess pieces.
Like she’s in control, and not that beating thing in her chest that scares her so much.
“Stop talking. We’re both overdressed,” she says. Her hands return to my shirt, gripping, lifting, and I grin and let her pull it off me.
I watch her eyes track down my chest, my stomach, the line of muscle that disappears into my jeans. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip, and the sight of it sends a jolt straight through me.
