There’s silence and then, quietly, I say: “I don’t think he’s done. There’s something not right about him. It’s never going to end.”
Flint’s jaw tightens. “Let him try.”
The lock clicks into place behind us.
I stand frozen, just inside the door. I can feel the violence crackling inside me. My hands ache to ball into fists. I haven't looked at Ash since we left, since I peeled Brett away from her and saw the bruises already growing on her skin.
Casie steps toward me, closing the gap. Say something.”
I grit my teeth. “I. Should. Have. Killed. Him.”
“You got me out, instead.” Her voice shakes. “That's what matters.”
“He never should have been near you. I should have ripped the veins from his body the first time.” My voice is barely a whisper, every word like a shard of glass in my throat. “I felt your fear, Casie. It was–”
I swear, his anger is a living, breathing thing. I can feel it pacing around the small space of the apartment, the weight of it. I'd swear I can smell it — a wafting scent of gasoline, blood and sweat. There's something else there, too. Almost like a thunderstorm, all electricity and rain.
I don't want to talk about Brett. Not now. Not with the heat of adrenaline still thrumming through my blood like a second heartbeat; with Flint standing there like he is about to explode. He's blaming himself. Drowning in guilt and restraint.
So, I do the only thing that I can think to do. The only thing to maybe, hopefully, stop Flint from thinking. I close the distance between us, putting one hand on hisshoulder and the other against his cheek, and press my lips to his.
I feel him stiffen, for just an instant. Then, he sinks into it, like gravity finally catches up to him. One hand caresses my cheek, the other wraps in the tangle of my hair, using it as leverage to change the angle of the kiss. He plunders my mouth, his warm tongue stroking inside, dancing over and teasing my own. He moans into my mouth as the kiss deepens, yet still manages to keep a respectful distance between our bodies.
For fucks sake.
I love the man — his respect, his care — but I don't want any of that right now.
I close the distance between us, pulling myself flush against him. I can feel how hard he already is, even through his jeans.
He drags his mouth away, gasping for air.
“I don't want safe,” I whisper, letting my lips find his neck. “I want you.”
“You don't know what you're asking for,” he growls, voice thick with restraint. “I'm not sure I can stop once I start.”
I look up at him, seeing the wildness I'm feeling shining within his eyes.
“Then don't.”
Flint groans, like something just broke inside him.
Before I can take another breath, he pushes me back into the wall with a thud and my mouth is being devoured by his. His hands are under my shirt in seconds, rough and insistent, dragging it up, over my head. I raise my arms in a feeble attempt at helping, but my brain has gone all floaty.
Until he sets his teeth into my neck and I feel my corego molten. I yank his jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. I need to feel him — skin to skin, heat to heat, pounding heart to pounding heart. I need to burn with him until nothing else exists.
He hooks his hands under my ass, lifting me off the ground. I wrap my legs around him instinctively, igniting another fire inside me. He carries me the short distance to the living room.
Not gentle. Not slow.
He lays me back on the couch. And stops.
And stares.
I can physically feel his gaze traveling over my body and I can only imagine what he's seeing. My make-up is surely smeared, my hair is probably a tousled mess. Oh — and I'm half naked.
Just before I open my mouth to make some self-deprecating joke to ease the tension I can feel building, he finally speaks.
“Fuck, you're beautiful,” he murmurs. “You always have been.”
