Page 20 of Her Dirty Defender

I’ve killed. I’ve broken men without hesitation and done whatever was necessary to complete the mission. There’s no redemption for men like me, no way to erase the ghosts that haunt me when I close my eyes.

I have nothing to offer her except hands that know how to destroy, a body trained for war, and a heart so battered and bruised I don’t know if it even works properly anymore.

But she’s here. Soft and warm in my arms, the first good thing I’ve let myself touch in longer than I can remember.

I cup her face, my thumbs skimming over the curve of her jaw, grounding her. Grounding myself.

“I’m not a good man,” I rasp, my voice rough, my conscience clawing at me like a wounded animal. I swallow hard. “But if you let me…” I exhale sharply, my control hanging by a thread. “I’ll make this good for you.”

Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and her body stills in my arms, not in fear but in anticipation. “You already are.”

Fuck.

I break.

I was holding back. I’m not anymore.

My hands tighten on her hips, dragging her against me, crushing every inch of space between us.

I kiss her like a dying man gasping for air.

One second, I’m convincing myself she should walk away.

The next?

I’m pressing her into the mattress, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every ounce of hesitation.

Her hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, into my hair, tugging—desperate, demanding.

A groan rumbles in my chest, low and deep, as her legs wrap around my waist like she’s meant to be there.

She fits.

Jesus Christ, she fits so perfectly.

“Last chance to make a run for it.” My words are rough and guttural, one last thread of restraint before I lose myself completely.

She breathes hard, her lips brushing mine, teasing, wrecking me.

And then she laughs. A breathless, wrecked sound that sends blood rushing straight to my dick. “You’re wasting time talking.”

I curse, a deep, hungry growl tearing from my throat. Then I move. Lips on her throat. Hands gripping, exploring, claiming.

I claim her mouth in a kiss that’s neither gentle nor soft because there’s no more pretending, no more illusions. This is exactly what it is: two strangers colliding, seeking solace in each other for one night, finding something close to healing in the dark before the sun rises and reality pulls us apart.

My grip tightens in her hair, angling her head so I can kiss her deeper, harder, pouring everything I can’t say into the way our mouths move together, desperate and searching as if we’re trying to memorize each other before the night steals us away.

She responds with the same urgency, her nails scraping down my back, her body pressing closer, molding to mine in a way that feels like fate. Like inevitability.

Every time I touch her, every time she gasps into my mouth like I’m the only man who’s ever kissed her like this, something deep inside me shifts.

Something I wasn’t ready for.

Something I don’t have a name for.

Her fingers fist in my shirt, tugging me closer. I groan into her mouth, dragging my hands down her body and branding her with my touch, ensuring she knows how much I want her.

I press my forehead to hers, both of us breathing hard as our chests rise and fall in sync. I don’t say anything because I don’t trust myself to.

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