Page 23 of My Girl to Ruin

“Now,” he orders, his own control clearly fraying. “Come with me, kitten.”

We crash together, his release triggering mine, his cock pulsing inside me as my inner muscles clamp down around him. He groans my name, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, his body shuddering against mine as he spills into me.

For a long moment, we stay like that, joined and trembling, his hand lifting from my mouth, his other hand still loosely around my throat.

Slowly, carefully, he withdraws and turns me around to face him.

His expression has softened, the wildness replaced by something almost awestruck. “Irresistible,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my swollen lips. “You’re absolutely irresistible, you know that?”

I flush, my cheeks heating as the reality of what we just did settles over me. “I—”

He cuts me off with a gentle kiss. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his forehead against mine. “For how the call ended earlier. I was an ass. I came here to apologize and take you home. But then I saw you with him…” His jaw tightens, his eyes darkening again. “I lost it.”

“I noticed,” I reply softly. Then, I kiss him, soft and sweet, my hands sliding up to cup his face. “I like when you get possessive.”

He groans, pulling me into his arms, his hold tight and protective. “You’re going to be the death of me, Tatum,” he rasps.

A small silence follows, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less uncertain. He studies me for a second longer before stepping back fully this time, creating space between us that feels more deliberate now, more controlled.

“Come on,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll take you home.”

The drive is quiet.

I sit in the passenger seat, my fingers loosely intertwined in my lap as I stare out the window, watching the city blur past while my mind turns over everything that’s happened. I shift in my seat, my thoughts drifting somewhere I can’t quite ignore.

He apologized for hanging up. He didn’t answer the question.

Whatever this is between us, it isn’t simple. Yet, he still holds back. Even now. Even after everything. There’s always a part of him that stays out of reach, locked away behind something I can’t break through no matter how hard I try.

And I don’t know why. Is it guilt? Or is it me?

I swallow hard, my gaze dropping to my hands as I press my lips together. Maybe this is all it is for him. Maybe the attraction is real. But what if it stops there? The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest, twisting something that doesn’t feel easy to ignore.

Because if that’s true, then I’m already too far in. And I don’t know how to pull myself out.

My gaze drifts to him, to his hands resting steady on the wheel. His expression is calm again, controlled. A far cry from the man who had me against a wall an hour ago.

For the first time since this started, I wonder if I’m fighting a losing battle.

Chapter Six

Tatum

The professor says the company’s name at 11:40 on a Tuesday, and my pen stops moving.

“Bardon Automotive,” he repeats, tapping the projector remote. “Two hundred and six plaintiffs and counting. Consolidated last spring. And what makes this one instructive for our purposes—” he pauses, delighted with himself, “—is that discovery produced internal testing data. Ipso facto, the manufacturer knew.”

Bardon.

I know that name.

I know it the way you know a word you learned before you knew what words were for. Cardboard boxes stacked three deep along the back wall of the shop, that ugly orange logo on every one of them. Two summers of sitting on an overturned crate sorting invoices into folders for ten dollars a day because Tyler said filing built character, and I said filing built boredom. He laughed and gave me the ten dollars anyway.

Every one of those invoices said Bardon across the top.

The room keeps going. Somebody asks a question about causation. The professor answers it. I don’t hear any of it.

The manufacturer knew.