Page 89 of Ace of Spades

I get closer to him.

“Even if it’s me.”

For one second—just one—his guard slips. I see the storm behind his eyes. The ache. The need. The fear. And I know he wants to pull me in.

But he doesn’t.

He just says, low and ragged, “You make it real hard to keep doing the right thing, Angel.”

There’s that nickname he called me at the lighthouse. The one he didn’t think I noticed.

Is that how he sees me?

Right now he’s looking at me like I just handed him a lifeline wrapped in barbed wire.

But then, he moves. Fast.

One step, then another, and I don’t breathe until his hand is fisted in my shirt and his mouth crashes against mine.

No hesitation. No asking.

Just need.

Weeks of tension detonate with one kiss. It’s not careful. It’s not controlled. It’s him finally sayingfuck itthe only way he knows how… by devouring me.

His hands are on my waist, gripping tight, pulling me into him like he doesn’t know where he ends and I begin.

My fingers find the back of his neck, tugging at his hair, anchoring myself to something solid before I completely lose it.

He growls against my lips, low and guttural, like he’s been starved and I’m the only thing on the menu.

“I tried,” he rasps between kisses, forehead pressed to mine. “Tried to be good. Tried to stay away.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” I whisper, breathless.

A humorless laugh escapes him.

“No. I didn’t. Because every time I see you, I forget how to fucking breathe.”

His hands slide down, gripping the backs of my thighs.

In one smooth move, he lifts me, pinning me against the side of the truck. Metal bites into my spine. His body cages mine in, big and hot and desperate.

“This isn’t fair,” he mutters, brushing his mouth along my jaw, my neck. “You looking at me like that. Saying shit like that. Youseeing mewhen I’ve spent years making damn sure no one does.”

“Maybe it’s time you stop hiding,” I whisper, letting my fingers trail down his chest, over his racing heartbeat.

He groans. Full-bodied and tormented.

And then he kisses me again.

Harder.

Like he’s trying to erase the distance between who he is and who he thinks he’s allowed to be.

His kiss deepens, rough and hungry, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me, or maybe forget every reason why he shouldn’t.

I don’t want soft. I wantreal.

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