He steps closer, rain dripping off his chin. “Shut up for a second.”
His voice shakes, but his hand doesn’t as he grabs the lapel of my jacket, his cold fingers fisting the leather, resting against my collarbone.
Before I can figure out what the hell he’s doing, Preston drags me toward him and kisses me.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like he came here to drown and decided to pull me down with him.
His kiss is intense, shocking, with nothing soft lurking beneath. He tastes like rain, bitterness, and something warm and primitive. Something so raw, I can’t put a name to it.
His lips are cold, almost numb, but he pushes into my space with a sort of wretchedness that steals my breath. As if he’s dying and needs to take his last drag of air through me.
There’s something uninhibited about the way Preston kisses. It’s kind of innocent, unpracticed but full of visceral energy, like he’s never kissed before.
Or maybe he’s never kissed this way before.
I grunt at the thought, and a shiver sparks down my spine.
I fist a hand in his wet hair and yank his head back to thrust my tongue down his throat. A quiet moan breaks out of him and shoots straight to my wound-up chest.
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
Fuuuck.
I think I could kiss him like this for eternity.
Preston grips my jacket harder, trying to pull me closer despite shaking so violently, he can barely stand. The rain slicks between our mouths, his breath hot against the cold night air, steam rising from our skin where we touch.
“Marcus—” he says, his voice cracking.
I cut him off with another kiss as he groans in my mouth. It’s deeper this time, swallowing whatever he was about to say.
It’s better if he stays quiet. He only pisses me off when he speaks, and I don’t want to deal with that tonight.
My other hand slides to the back of his neck, cold skin flashing hot under my palm. I can feel his frantic, uneven pulse there, as if his body can’t contain whatever is happening between us.
“Fuck,” I breathe against his lips, my forehead touching his. “You can’t just keep kissing your way back to me.”
“I can try,” he whispers, barely audible, as he brushes his cold lips against mine, caging me exactly where he wants me.
“I thought you didn’t like kissing me.”
His droopy eyes flit to my lips. “Maybe I lied.”
“Fucking hell,” I growl deep in my throat. “I’m supposed to be mad at you.”
“You are,” he mutters, his fingers digging into my throat. “That’s why it feels…good. You make it feel good.”
Something inside me breaks.
I call itthe Preston complication, but truly, maybe I’m the complicated one.
Because as I stare in his soft eyes, I know that I’d let this prick have whatever the fuck he wants.
