“What do you mean?”
“Stop pretending to be so understanding. It’s worse than your threats.”
“Why?”
I swallow.
“Because when you’re an asshole, it’s more fun.”
He slides closer and throws his arm over the back of the couch, his thigh brushing mine. “Who says I’m not still an asshole?”
Being mere inches away means he’ll notice my pulse hammering in my throat and he’ll definitely see the flush spreading across my cheeks. I angle my chin so he can’t see and force my breathing to slow.
His gaze drifts to my throat. “You look a little flustered, princess.”
“It’s the god-awful wine,” I lie. “Just because it’s pricey doesn’t mean it’s decent.”
Bronx chuckles and sets his glass down. When he sits deeper into the couch, the scent of his cologne is everywhere, and the rumble of his voice sends a shiver through me.
“That’s a vintage Italian,” he says, close to my ear. “If it’s not to my wife’s liking, then we’ll fly to Tuscany so you can pick out your own favorites.”
“This is too much, too soon…” When I go to stand, he snares my wrist and pulls me closer.
“Tierney.”
Our gazes clash, his rich hazel pupils full of fire.
“What?”
The moment his fingers curl into the fabric at my hip, the air between us snaps like a live wire. One hard tug and my knees slide over leather until I’m half in his lap, chest bumping chest, breath punched out of me in a startled gasp.
I should push him away. Use tactical force to remove myself, but I don’t.
His mouth crashes over mine and myheart bucks.
It’s all heat, hunger and days of stolen glances finally breaking open all at once. I taste the whiskey on his tongue when he licks into me, and I can’t stop the broken whimper that spills into his mouth.
My hands fly to his shirt, fingers twisting into the soft cotton. I press against him, aware of every hard line of his abdomen. He groans into my mouth and the rumble vibrates through my ribs, down my spine, shooting straight between my thighs.
His hand leaves my hip and splays wide across my lower back, fingers spread, locking me against him so I can’t retreat, can’t breathe, can’t think.
My hips rock forward without permission, chasing more, and he answers with a rough thrust of his own that makes my head spin.
I’m drowning in him. In the scrape of his stubble against my chin, the way his tongue strokes mine like he’s trying to claim every corner of my mouth.
God, I want to tear the damn shirt off and lick his inked skin, want to mark him with more scratches and hear how much it gets him off. This isn’t how Damien kissed me. This is reckless…and hot.
But the way I react to him is too telling. Too fast. Too wrong when I’m meant to want Damien.
I wrench my mouth away, lungs burning, lips swollen and tingling. His hand stays locked on my lower back, thumb stroking to remind me who has control in this moment.
My fingers stay fisted in his shirt, knuckles white, and my clit throbs so hard that I have to hold myself back from straddling his thigh to cause friction.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
He exhales a throaty laugh against my mouth.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck.”
