"—tea, in your kitchen, on the back of a shelf, because you wanted—"
I put my hand on her jaw.
She stops mid-sentence. Her breath hitches. Her hand comes up and wraps around my wrist. She could push me away. Her fingers tighten instead, pressing my palm harder against her skin.
"I hate you," she says, low and rough. "I hate what you called me. I hate that you bought my tea. I hate that you texted me to lock my door after you told me to leave. And I'm going to keep hating you after this."
"I know."
I kiss her because if she says one more word, I am going to lose the last fucking inch of control I have left.
Her mouth opens against mine. Her teeth catch my lower lip hard enough that copper floods my tongue, and my hand tightens on her jaw before I can decide whether I am holding her still or holding myself together.
Her teeth. My hand. Her breath dragging hard through her nose. Kissing Maya Maddox feels like arguing with our mouths.
I press her back against the counter, both hands on her hips, and lift her onto the edge. Her legs wrap around me, hauling me into the space between her thighs. Her body draws me closer while her mouth keeps threatening war, and my fingers dig harder into her hips.
Her hands are in my hair, tugging. I slide one hand up her back to the base of her neck and hold her there, her head tilted back, throat exposed. I drag my teeth along the tendon in her neck, slow enough to make her shake, and taste salt against my tongue when the sound she makes vibrates through her chest into mine.
"This changes nothing," she says against my ear. "This is not forgiveness."
"I'm not asking for it."
"I still have the file."
"I know you have the file."
"I could still use it."
"You could shut up and kiss me."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Me. Quiet. Compliant."
"I'd settle for five seconds where you're not dismantling me."
"Dismantling you." She leans away far enough to look at my face. "Is that what I'm doing?"
"You know exactly what you're doing."
"Say it."
"No."
"Say what I'm doing to you, Dante."
I bite the hinge of her jaw. Hard.
She gasps. Her hips jerk against mine.
"That's not an answer," she says, breathless.
"It's the only one you're getting."
Her hands come to my chest. She shoves hard, and I stagger back. She is off the counter before I can recover, closing the distance, grabbing the front of my jacket, and dragging me back to her mouth until my spine hits the wall. Her body presses along the length of mine, and I can feel every breath she takes against my ribs, every shift of her hips against mine.
I grip her waist and spin us until her back is against the wall and my weight pins her there. She arches into me, hips rolling forward, and the friction through denim sends heat so sharp my vision narrows.
"You talk too much," I say against her skin.
