Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Earnest. Asking me to believe her.
Something in my chest shifts—dangerous and unwelcome. This is exactly the line I told myself I wouldn’t cross.
Not tonight. Not with her still bleeding. Not when I’ve already decided how this is supposed to end.
The walls I’ve built don’t feel so solid anymore. This is a mistake—and I'm making it anyway.
Not because I don’t want her—but because I do. And wanting her like this would wreck the leverage I’d been setting up since last night.
“I’m not your enemy, Gage,” she says quietly.
My jaw tightens as I lean in, the storm’s noise fading until all I hear is her breathing.
“Yeah?” I murmur. “Then what are you?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Mine do the same.
She swallows hard and lifts her wrapped hand, brushing the edge of the bandage along my cheek. The coarse fabric drags across my stubble, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
Every clash. Every argument. Every time she’s driven me insane.
I should step back. I don’t. That’s the choice.
It all pulls tight and snaps between us as I move in—meeting her halfway.
Our lips crash together, a battle for dominance that feels inevitable after everything between us. She nips my bottom lip harder than I expect, and I groan into her mouth as I grip the back of her neck, holding her there, refusing to give ground.
She reaches for my wet flannel, working at the buttons one by one, but patience has never been my strength. I rip it off instead, buttons scattering across the floor. I pull the blanket away and tug the shirt over her head. She laughs into my mouth.
“Keep this up and you won’t have any flannels left,” she teases as I toss the fabric aside.
I push her back against the couch and drop to my knees, staring down at her half-naked body. I lick my lips as I undo my belt, hunger tightening low in my gut. She reaches behind herself and unhooks her bra, tossing it aside.
How did I not truly notice how beautiful she is?
I think that’s what makes this worse. She’s a damn knockout—and she still pisses me off.
I shove my jeans down, half-wild, ready to get inside her—then she reaches back beside the couch, yanking open the drawer I know I keep stocked.
A foil packet smacks into my palm—sharp, decisive. She never breaks the kiss.
I huff a laugh against her mouth. We might be furious, but we’re not stupid.
I know exactly what I’m risking here.
The plan. The advantage. My ability to pretend I don’t care what she thinks of me after tonight.
I tear it open and roll it on in one rough stroke.
She stares at me, drinking me in, and it’s the exact reaction I want—the kind that tells me she’s as locked into this as I am.
I grab her thighs and drag her toward me, ripping her underwear down her legs in one impatient pull. If I were a better man, I’d slow down—but that sure as hell isn’t tonight.
I lie over her, the heat between our bodies immediate and grounding after the cold rain. She kisses me with a needy urgency, and I pull back just long enough to give her breasts my full attention.
She moans softly as I knead and caress her, giving both the same deliberate focus.
Her fingers bury in my hair, and I wish it didn’t feel as good as it does. I groan against her mouth as her other hand slides between us, stroking me with confident intent.
