"Then what are we doing?"
He turns to look at me. In the low light, his gray eyes look almost silver, and there's a darkness there. It’s hungry and hesitant at the same time.
"I don't know," he admits.
"That's becoming your catchphrase."
"You're becoming a problem."
"I've been a problem since day one. You're just now noticing?"
He sets his glass on the railing and turns to face me fully. His body blocks the light from the apartment, casting his face in shadow. I can't see his expression, but I can feel the tension radiating off him.
"You should be afraid of me," he says.
"Iamafraid of you."
"You don't act like it."
"Because being afraid doesn't mean I'm going to cower." I set my own glass down, meeting his shadow-dark gaze. "You want me to flinch every time you look at me? To beg and grovel and act like the broken thing you tried to make me? Sorry to disappoint, but that's not who I am."
"Who are you, then?"
"I'm still figuring that out." I take a step closer, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping at his throat. "But I know one thing. I'm not going to let you pretend this morning didn't happen. I'm not going to let you retreat into your cold little shell and act like you didn't fall apart when you touched me."
His hands curl into fists at his sides. "I told you, that was amistake."
"So you say, and yet I don’t believe you. You keep looking at me like you want to make the samemistakeagain."
"That’s not true."
"Tell me I'm wrong." Another step. We're inches apart now, close enough that his breath fans on my face. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll back off. I'll go to my room, go to sleep, and tomorrow we can pretend to be professional about the whole 'investigating your secret evil organization' thing."
He doesn't say anything.
"That's what I thought."
I reach up and grab the front of his shirt. Pull him down to me.
The kiss is nothing like this morning. This morning was desperation, explosion, a dam breaking under too much pressure. This is deliberate. Slow. I lick into his mouth and taste whiskey and dinner.
For a moment, he lets me lead. His hands hover at his sides, his body rigid, like he's fighting himself with every breath.
Then he stops fighting.
His hands come up and grab my wrists, hard enough to bruise. He spins me around and shoves me against the glass panel, my chest hitting the cold surface with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. Before I can react, he's pressed against my back, his body a wall of heat and muscle pinning me in place.
"You want this?" His voice is low, rough, right against my ear. "You want me to stop pretending?"
My cock is already hard, trapped between my stomach and the freezing glass. "Yes."
"You want me to show you what I really am?"
"Yes."
His teeth find the back of my neck and bite down. Not gentle. Not playful. Hard enough that I cry out, hard enough that I'll have marks tomorrow. Hard enough that I can feel blood dripping down my skin before he sucks it into his mouth. His hips grind against my ass, and I can feel how hard he is through layers of fabric.
"Inside," he growls. "Now."
