why I stop him. “Wait. Let me make you a cup of coffee. As thanks.”
He smiles, and we sit on my couch while sipping from the last dregs of cold brew I have in the fridge. The conversation is nice, and it’s surprisingly relaxing to enjoy the company of someone who isn’t trying to intimidate me. Those reasons alone could justify letting him stay.
Or maybe I’m just a spiteful bitch. My eyes refuse to leave the window long after Liam finishes his coffee, and I place our empty mugs on the counter.
“I should get going,” he suggests.
Smiling, I see him to the door, but I quickly find myself inching toward the window once he’s gone. I use the pretense of arranging my tulips in the windowsill, adjusting their petals—but the angle from their vase gives me the perfect view of the street below.
I catch sight of Liam leaving, his hands in his jean pockets, his smile visible even from here. He walks toward where he must have parked—completely oblivious to the man lurking in the mouth of a nearby alley.
As if sensing my gaze, the shadowed figure cranes his neck, boldly meeting my stare through the panes of glass. He has a cigarette in his mouth, breathing out smoke in tendrils resembling the flames licking down his bare forearm. He’s a veritable dragon, waiting for the right moment to attack.
Slowly, he lowers the butt from his mouth and tosses it aside, crushing it beneath his foot. Then he moves—but in the wrong direction. Toward my building and not away. My heart picks up speed as he disappears from my line of sight, near the entrance.
He won’t, a part of me insists. He won’t…
But he is. It’s like I can track his ascent. Up one floor. Another. Mine.
I don’t even hear his footsteps, but I know the second he arrives at my door. He never knocks. He doesn’t have to—he merely waits.
And I’m drawn forward like a moth despite every nerve warning me to run. Rebelliously, my fingers fan out over the wood as if I might be able to feel him this way. I never have to open the door to benefit from his electricity. His heat. His nearness…
I can deny his presence and still feel alive.
But the simulation of his touch isn’t enough. My fingers creep to the door handle before I can stop them, turning, tugging, and pulling it open.
There’s always the possibility that he isn’t here. Never was. But one inhale, and I know.
The scent of smoke floods my nostrils as my skin ignites with the awareness of him. But I don’t look up at first. Instead, my gaze settles on the floor at his feet. The dark wood shifts beneath the fall of his swaying shadow as if it’s taking all of his effort to remain still.
But not silent. “Look at me, rabbit,” he commands.
I take my time, slowly inching my gaze higher, grazing over the fabric of his jeans and the contours of his chest. His face last…
Our eyes meet with a sensation that makes my breath catch. He should be angry, I think, but his brow furrows more in confusion than anything else. As if he doesn’t even know why he’s here. Just that he is, stepping inside without an invitation, grabbing for me. His fist seizes a handful of my dress, using it as a leash to tug me aside and press me up against the wall. Stunned, I can’t even react before his lips claim mine.
My nails bite into his arms preemptively as he hooks his palm around my waist, but I don’t push him off. I can’t, and he doesn’t move as if daring me to. Our breaths mingle, our lips hoovering apart. Together. Apart. It’s like we don’t know how to maneuver if one isn’t trying to bite the other. Finally, he nips, and I inhale, letting my hands find his shoulders, then his hair.
He copies me, sliding his hands over the straps of my dress. My arms go up as he draws the fabric over my head and pulls it off. As if watching this happen to someone else, I stare as he tosses the dress to the floor and tugs at the clasp of his jeans, kicking them off.
My view is blocked when he steps into me and fists his hand through my hair, making me face him. His eyes glow, blazing with a million different accusations he doesn’t voice out loud. You were with him. Did you