I stop at my door.
Stare at it.
Then turn on my heel and knock on his.
Hard.
One. Two. Three.
The door opens like he was standing there waiting. Like he knew.
Evan fills the doorway in a dark T-shirt and sweats, hair damp like he showered, forearms bare, eyes steady. No smile, but something warmer than one. Like he heard me coming and decided not to run.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. It burns. There’s fire in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly why I’m here, but he’s going to make me say it. “You okay? You want to talk about what happened earlier?”
I should say yes. I should say no. I should say something normal.
But I don’t want totalkabout what happened earlier. I want toacton it.
Decisively.
I step forward, grab his shirt, and pull him into the hall like I’m done asking permission for anything.
His breath catches. His lips twitch upward, a smirk waiting to happen; that he teases me with it pisses me off even more — Evan knows what’s coming, but still wants to play coy, because he loves how it is when he works me up.
Maybe I like it too.
“What is it, Molly?”
“Shut up, you possessive bastard,” I whisper, and I kiss him.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t careful. It’s the kiss I’ve been denying myself all damn day. The kiss that says,“Fuck you for breakingmy rules, and I’m going to fuck you for breaking my rules, you hardheaded son of a bitch.”My mouth crashes into his, and he makes a sound against my lips that turns my knees into water.
“You seem worked up about something,” he murmurs.
“Do I? Maybe it’s because fuck you, asshole.”
His response is a dark chuckle as he grabs my hips and backs us into his apartment without breaking the kiss, foot hooking the door closed behind us. The lock clicks. His hands move like he’s done pretending. One palm slides up my back, fingers splaying like he’s claiming the shape of me. The other cups my jaw, tilting my face just right, deepening the kiss until my head spins.
I drag my nails down his chest through the fabric of his shirt. “You were waiting for me.”
His mouth skims my cheek, my throat. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I went through all that trouble to claim you in front of everyone, and I’m sick of pretending I don’t want you. Like I don’t want to fuck your brains out every time I’m around you.”
My stomach flips and I feel like I’m nineteen again, stupid and full of want.
“Bedroom,” I order, because if I don’t move us now, I’ll melt into a puddle on his carpet.
His eyes flash. “Finally.”
He doesn’t sweep me up like some fantasy; his grip tightens on my hips and he guides me to his bedroom door, his lips still on mine, my lips still consumed by his, my heart racing. He shuts the bedroom door with a kick and presses me against it, mouth on mine again, and the world narrows to heat and breath and the rough slide of his stubble along my skin.
I break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “You’re trouble.”
He lets out a low, dark laugh. “You’re the one who tried to knock my door down.”
