Page 10 of Tempted By Shadow

“Probably.”

“I’m serious. If he found out you were here — sitting in my kitchen, drinking my coffee, looking at me like—” I stop myself. Like I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Like I don’t know exactly how he’s looking at me.

“Like what?” His voice is lower now. Rougher.

“Like you’re thinking about doing something stupid.”

“I’m always thinking about doing something stupid when it comes to you.” He says it quietly, like a confession he didn’t mean to make. “Since the parking lot. Since you threw that line at me and walked away without looking back. I haven’t been able to stop.”

I should tell him to leave. I should get up, open the door, and make him go before this gets any worse.

Instead, I stand and carry my mug to the sink.

It’s a stupid excuse to move. The coffee’s still half-full and I don’t actually want to wash the cup. But I need to do something, need to not be sitting across from him with that look on his face and nowhere to hide.

I pass behind his chair. Close. Closer than I need to.

“Shadow,” I say, and it comes out low. Almost a whisper.

He moves fast.

His hand catches my wrist before I can take another step. His grip is firm but not rough — a question, not a demand. I stop. My pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

He stands. Turns me. And suddenly we’re face to face, inches apart, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The want fighting the should. The need fighting the consequences.

“Tell me to stop,” he says. His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. His eyes search my face, looking for permission or denial, I’m not sure which.

I could stop this. Right here, right now. I could tell him to leave, and he would. He’d walk out that door and we’d pretend this never happened. He’d go back to tailing me from a respectable distance, and I’d go back to pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me every time I leave my apartment.

I could be smart for once in my life.

I don’t.

He kisses me.

Not gentle. Not careful. He kisses me like he’s been holding back for days and something in him just snapped. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer. His other hand finds my hip, gripping hard, anchoring me against him.

I grab fistfuls of his shirt and hold on.

He tastes like bad coffee and bad decisions and everything I swore I wasn’t going to do. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I’m kissing him back just as hard, giving as good as I get, because fuck it. Fuck being careful. Fuck being smart. I’ve spent two years making the wrong choices, and I’m so tired of pretending I’m going to suddenly start making the right ones.

He backs me into the counter. The edge digs into my spine, and I don’t care. His body is solid against mine, all heat and lean muscle, and I can feel how much he wants this. How much he wants me.

“This is crazy,” I manage between kisses.

“I know.” He doesn’t stop. His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, the spot below my ear that makes my knees buckle.

“King will⁠—”

“I don’t care.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, breathing hard, eyes dark. “I should. I know I should. But right now I don’t give a fuck about anything except you.”

He kisses me again. Deeper this time. Slower. Like now that he’s started, he wants to take his time. Like it’s all he’s been thinking about, and now that it’s happening, he doesn’t want to rush it.

My hands find their way under his shirt. Warm skin. Hard muscle. The ridge of a scar across his ribs that I want to ask about later, when my brain is working again. When I can form complete sentences and think about something other than the way his hands feel on my body.

Later. Everything else can wait until later.

Right now, there’s only this — his mouth, his hands, the way he’s pressing me into the counter like he can’t get close enough. The way I’m pulling him closer, matching his hunger with my own. The way neither of us is pretending anymore.