He’s closer now. When did he get closer? His thigh is pressed against mine, his hand fisting in the front of my shirt.
“Because you make me laugh and you drive me insane, and I don’t know which one I like more.”
And then he’s kissing me like it’s just an extension of our conversation, his tongue sliding into my mouth to tangle with mine.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s not a question. It’s the verbal equivalent of everything he just said—frustration, demand, and slight fury—channeled directly into my mouth.
I should push him away. I should use this interruption to redirect, deflect, crack a joke about his technique, hobble to the bathroom on my crutches to regroup.
Instead, I grab his shirt and haul him closer.
Because if Leo Brennan thinks he can crack me open with a speech and then kiss me like he’s won something, he’s got another think coming.
I bite his lower lip. Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to say “I’m still here and I’m not surrendering.”
Leo growls against my mouth.
Good.
I fist my hand in the front of his shirt and yank, and buttons scatter. I’ll apologize for the shirt later. Or I won’t. It’s an ugly shirt.
“That was expensive,” he says against my mouth.
“Bill me.”
His hands find my waist, steadying me as I wobble on my good leg because one of the many indignities of a broken ankle is that you can’t be shoved passionately against walls. You have to be carefully maneuvered to the nearest horizontal surface like fragile cargo.
Very sexy. Very romantic.
Leo seems to reach the same conclusion because he guides me backward toward the bed, one arm tight around my waist, taking most of my weight, the other hand cradling the back of my head. It’s infuriatingly considerate. Even in the middle of whatever this is—a fight, a seduction, a negotiation—he’s making sure I don’t stumble.
“I can manage,” I say against his mouth.
“You have a broken ankle.”
“Which has never stopped me from anything.”
The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I sit down hard, which isn’t ideal for dignity but does put me at an interesting height relative to Leo’s belt buckle.
I reach for it.
“Archie—”
“What? You wanted answers. I’m giving you answers.” My fingers make quick work of the leather. “Just not the ones you asked for.”
“That’s not?—”
I pull him free and take him into my mouth without preamble.
The sound he makes is deeply gratifying.
But Leo doesn’t do what other people do. Other people grip my hair and lose themselves. Other people let me run the show.
Leo pulls back. Cups my jaw. Tilts my face up to look at him.
“No,” he says.
“No?”
