Page 35 of Wicked Ruin

“What are you going to do about it?”

“That does it.” Against every shred of logic and reason I have left, I lift her and lay her across my lap in the car.

She's laughing before it even starts, her legs kicking, hand flying out to catch herself against the seat. I pin her expertly with one palm flat at the small of her back, holding her still, then my other hand comes down across the curve of her arse. The crack of it fills the car. Even through the denim, it lands heavy, and she squeals, trying to wriggle free, her hips twisting against my thighs.

And I’m instantly hard.

I bring my hand down again and again, steady and deliberate, because I know she likes it, and I know she wants it, and fuck, so do it. I spank her until she's squirming and cursing under her breath, grinding against my lap in a way she almost certainly isn't conscious of, and I am hard as I've ever been in my life.

“Now,” I say, leaning down to speak against her ear, gathering a fistful of her hair at the nape and pulling, gentle but sure. “Want to try again?”

She moans, then catches herself. “Oh my god—stop⁠—”

“Funny,” I say, my fingers tangled in her hair. “You were the one who started this.”

“Don't pull my hair.” She's breathing hard. She hasn't stopped moving against me. “Declan. Don't.”

I release her hair, resting my hand on her lower back instead, warm and still, and feel her chest heave.

We've crossed every line of propriety between us, and we both know it. I've known it since she climbed into this car. Since the club, if I'm being honest with myself, which I'm trying very hard not to be.

I say it anyway, more to myself than to her.

“If I put my hand between your thighs right now,” I ask, breathing heavily. “Would I find you wet?”

She doesn't answer. Doesn't have to. She's still across my lap, her breathing ragged, and I want things I haven't let myself want in a very long time.

She knows it. I know she does.

I ease my hand from her arm, slow and deliberate. I want this woman. I want her in the most intimate way possible. I want to bury myself inside her until she forgets her own name. I want to ruin her for every other man.

And it would be so fucking wrong, but⁠—

“Declan.” Her voice is barely above a strangled whisper.

My hand hovers just above the curve of her arse, close enough to feel the warmth still radiating from where I spanked her.

She sighs and blinks hard, as if trying to fight back tears.

I push my seat back, then turn her around. She buries her face against my chest, and I hold her. I don't say anything clever because there's nothing clever to say.

“We shouldn't even be alone together,” she says, dragging the back of her hand across her eyes.

“It's okay.”

She lets out a long, shaky breath. “I just—I miss you. Having you back feels like the worst kind of torture, Declan. You're everywhere, and I can't⁠—”

“I know.” The words cost me something. “I know. Because it’s wrecking me too.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm such a mess.”

“Don't you ever apologize for fuckin’ feeling.” My hand moves in slow circles across her back.

She lets out a laugh that's a half sob, then buries her face against me again, with a deep sigh I feel in my own heart.

I hold her and don't let go. Outside, the city goes on without us, and somewhere on the other side of it, there's a life I agreed to live that has nothing to do with this car, this woman, or the way I can’t make myself put any distance between us.

I don’t let go. I can’t.