Page 19 of Her Dirty Defender

Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t look at me like a man who’s done terrible things.

She looks atme.

As if she sees something worth wanting.

As if I’m more than my past, my scars, my mistakes.

And that? That’s fucking dangerous.

Because I can control everything else—my body, my actions, my instincts. But not this. Nother.

Her fingers twitch against mine, and I realize I’m still holding her hands pinned to the wall, our fingers entwined.

Her breath hitches, and my grip tightens. I lower my head, dragging my lips down the column of her throat and over the pulse hammering there. She shivers.

I did that.

And I want to do it again.

I want to see how many times I can make her shiver, make her moan, make her forget anything outside this room exists.

I press my body into hers, surrounding her, consuming her, claiming her in a way I have no right to.

And when she lifts her chin, offering me her lips, her body,herself…

I stop thinking.

I need another taste of those soft lips. My lips brush hers, so light it's barely a touch. It’s not enough.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue teasing the seam of her lips, coaxing them open. When she yields, she tastes like whiskey and something warm that feels like a promise.

She melts into me, her body softening, her defenses crumbling.

“You feel that?" I whisper against her lips. "That connection. That heat? You can't pretend it isn’t there.”

She nods, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She knows I’m right. She can't fight it. And I can't pretend. Not with her, not like this.

My hands slide up her back, under her tank top, tracing the ridges of her spine. I touch her firmly but gently, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how to make her feel everything.

“Let go, I murmur, my lips trailing down her neck, kissing every sensitive spot, every secret place that makes her shiver. “Let me take care of you.”

She does. She lets go. Lets me lead. Lets me remove the rest of her clothes and guide her to the bed with a trust that makes my heart ache. I don’t know what she’s fighting, what she’s running from, or why she’s scared of whatever this is between us, but I can feel it in the way she trembles and hesitates for a fraction of a second before giving in.

She’s not afraid of me. She’s afraid of herself.

And damned if I’m not scared too.

Scared of what this means, of what it might uncover. Afraid that if I let myself feel—reallyfeel—there will be no turning back.

Doubt creeps in.

Shit. I should stop this. I should let her go.

Because I’m not a good man.

Not anymore. Maybe I never was.

The things I’ve done and the choices I’ve made don’t belong in the same world as someone like her. I’ve crossed so many lines that they blurred into bloodstains.

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