Page 37 of Breaking His Exile

“Neither does wanting nothing.” Since he didn’t seem inclined to close the distance between them, she pressed up on her toes and kissed him.

His mouth was warm, his beard still damp from the rain, and it prickled her skin. Perfect. But he was still holding back.

She opened her mouth, encouraging him to explore.

He groaned softly, and his hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, and he finally kissed her back with a hunger that made her knees weak. His other arm banded around her waist, careful of her ribs, pulling her against him until there was no space between them. No air. Just his chest against hers and his heart hammering where her palm had landed and the rain on the roof and the stove throwing heat and Tilly watching from the floor with those dark, knowing eyes.

He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead against hers. His breath came hard. His hand on the back of her neck trembled.

“Don’t,” he said. Rough. Raw. “Don’t start something I won’t be able to stop.”

“I already started it,” she said.

Outside, the rain kept drumming on the roof, but the sound didn’t bother her anymore. It felt safe. The world narrowed to this cabin, this moment, this man whose breath warmed her skin and whose hands held her like something precious he was afraid to break.

Evander Cole looked at her one last time. Then he lowered his head and kissed her again.

ten

She tasted like rain and heat and every-fucking-thing he knew he shouldn’t want. Her mouth parted, and Rainey kissed him like she played guitar—a little wild, nothing held back. Her tongue traced the seam of his mouth, and a sound escaped him, low and unguarded. It was the kind of sound he’d forgotten he could make.

The stove popped behind them.

The rain hammered the roof.

Her fingers tangled in his shirt. Pulled him closer. His hand slid from her jaw to the curve of her waist, careful of her ribs, and he felt her arch into his palm. Warm. Alive.

He needed her closer.

He needed her, period.

He lost track of how long the kiss lasted. Five seconds, five hours. It could have been the rest of the night and he would have let it take him. The music in her head bled into his own—rising, building, a hum that started at his teeth and rattled down his spine. He kissed her until the air ran out, and when she made a sound against his mouth, he kissed her harder.

His hand found the hem of her shirt. He didn’t remember giving himself permission, but he wanted his palm on her skin, to feel every scar and story she’d carried in with her. He slid his thumb under the fabric, the heat of her ribs beneath. There was a line of tape over one spot—medical, careful, not his work. He traced it anyway, gentle, not wanting to hurt her, but hungry to know every inch.

She broke the kiss first to catch a breath. Her mouth hovered at the edge of his, her exhale wet and shaky. Then she bit his lower lip, and his cock went rock hard.

He wanted her.

He wanted to crowd her back onto the cot and taste the music on her tongue and make her forget about every club, every man, every night that had made her believe she needed to run.

But he had a rule, and the rule was simple: never, ever let someone trust him more than he trusted himself.

And right now, he didn’t trust a fucking thing about himself.

He broke contact. Stepped back so fast she lost her grip on his shirt, and the loss of her touch was a shock, like a cold plunge after a hot shower. He turned away, breath sawing out of him, cock throbbing for release. His hands shook, so he clenched them until the tremor faded.

The only sound was the stove ticking and the rain on the roof.

He heard her shift behind him. Maybe to sit down. Maybe to run. If she were smart, she’d run as far as possible away from him. “Evander…”

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

She waited. She was good at waiting. He hated that she was so good at it. “Why not?”

He forced his hands to unclench. Wiped them on his jeans. “If I start, I won’t stop.” He meant it as a warning. It sounded more like an apology, and he hated that too.

“What makes you think I wanted to stop?”