“Would you prefer I yell at you?”
“I’d prefer you to react like a normal person.” He took a step forward. “I kissed you. Out of nowhere. Doesn’t that freak you out?”
“No.”
“So what—one kiss and now you’re not straight anymore?”
Because I’d been thinking about it for weeks. Because I’d watched him skate every morning and built playlists of his old competitions and wondered if his lips were as soft as they looked. Because when his mouth had pressed against mine—brief but life altering—something had clicked into place that I hadn’t even known was missing.
“I’m 28.” I shrugged. “There are probably a lot of things I don’t know about myself yet.” I met his eyes. “What I do know is I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while.”
He went very still.
“You don’t know me, Derek.” His voice had lost some of its edge, replaced by something more uncertain. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“Then tell me.”
“I’m not a project. I’m not some—” His hands lifted like he didn’t know where to put them. “I’m not something you can fix.”
“I don’t want to fix you.” I kept my voice steady. “I just want you. The real you.”
Something raw flickered across his face—hopeless, almost—and I moved before I could think better of it.
And I kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed me. I couldn’t tell who moved first—only that one moment we were arguing and the next his mouth was on mine, hot and angry and nothing like the soft brush from this morning. His hands fisted in my shirt, yanking me closer, and I grabbed his hips and lifted him onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world. He made a sound against mymouth, something between a gasp and a moan, and wrapped his legs around me.
This kiss was a fight. His teeth caught my lower lip and I groaned, pressing him back against the cabinets. He tasted like raspberries and fury. His fingers raked up the back of my neck, into my hair, pulling hard enough to sting. I slid my hands under his loose shirt and found warm skin, the ridge of his spine, the sharp wings of his shoulder blades.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he gasped against my mouth.
“Shut up,” I said and kissed him harder.
20. Théo
I was having an out of body experience.
Tangled around Derek Sullivan, the hard lines of his body pressed against mine. My legs wrapped around his waist. His hands under my shirt, stroking my skin like I was something precious.
Then his fingers curled around the hem and I felt the question in the way he paused.
I pulled back. “Wait. Stop.”
He stopped immediately, hands freezing, breath ragged against my lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically and of course he did. The apology I’d forced out earlier had felt foreign on my tongue. For him, it was reflex.
What the fuck was I doing? Apologizing and then kissing a man like Saint Sully. He was way too fucking good for the world, let alone for me.
I unwrapped my legs and pushed gently at his chest. He stepped back, giving me space. I stayed on the counter because I wasn’t sure my legs would hold me.
“I’m a mess, Derek.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “I get it. The appeal. Beautiful disaster, right? Something to put back together.” I looked at him. “But I’m a thousand glass shards. I’ll cut you at every turn.”
He was quiet for a moment. His chest was still heaving, his lips red and swollen, his hair wrecked from where I’d run myfingers through it. He looked like sin personified, which was ironic given his reputation.
“You think that’s what this is?” he asked finally. “Some saviour complex?”
“Isn’t it?”
