“Maya,” I say.
“What?”
“If you say that again, I am going to prove you wrong.”
Her chin lifts as she stares me down.
“I am not yours.”
One second there is space between us, charged thin enough to cut. The next, my hand is at the back of her neck and my mouth is on hers.
The kiss is not gentle.
Gentleness would be a lie. A question. A softness neither of us has earned and neither of us would trust. This is cleaner. Hungrier. A claim made without words because words give Maya too much room to argue.
She makes a sound against my mouth, shocked and furious and not nearly opposed enough.
Her hands reach for my chest. Her fingers curl in my shirt, and something in me that should remain leashed goes very still before it strains forward.
I angle her head, deepening the kiss, and she opens for me with a sharp inhale that sends heat straight through my blood. Whiskey, anger, the faint sweetness of whatever she drank at the club, the bite of her restraint breaking piece by piece. She kisses like she fights. Defensive until she decides defense is too slow. Then fierce. Direct. Almost violent.
Perfect.
Her mouth moves against mine, and for a moment, the entire night reduces to the grip of her hands on me, the heat of herbody crossing the seat, the sound she tries to swallow when my hand slides to her waist and pulls her closer.
I wanted her before she was useful.
Now she is useful, furious, dangerous, and kissing me back like she can punish me with surrender.
A lesser man would mistake that for victory. I know better. This is not surrender.
Fine. Let her hate me. Hate keeps her closer. I pull back only far enough to breathe. Her mouth is flushed. Her eyes unfocused for half a second before anger fights its way back in. I like watching it return. I like knowing I disrupted it first.
“Say it again,” I murmur.
Her breath comes too fast. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m not giving you the satisfaction.”
My mouth brushes the corner of hers. “You already did.”
She hates that.
Then she kisses me.
This time she moves first, and every disciplined thought I have left fractures with it. My hand tightens at her waist, drawing her closer until one of her knees presses into the seat beside my thigh and the careful distance between us becomes a memory. Her fingers slide up to my jaw.
Then her thumb finds the bruise she put there.
She presses.
Not hard.
Enough.
A rough breath leaves me before I can stop it.
