Page 7 of Own Me, Outlaw
His breath catches, and I watch something shift in his expression. Something raw and hungry and desperate.
"You should go to the guest room now."
I shake my head. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"I'm not."
For a long moment, we just stand there in the space between his bookshelf and the fire. Me, barefoot on his hardwood floor, heart pounding so hard I'm dizzy. Him, looming and conflicted and looking like he wants to devour me and push me away at the same time.
The air between us crackles with tension, with want, with something that feels inevitable.
Then something breaks in his eyes. Some last wall crumbles.
A mix of emotions flicker across his face. Heat. Hunger. Desperation.
He closes the space between us in one fluid movement, his hand cupping the back of my neck like I'm his lifeline. His palm is warm and rough with calluses, and when his thumb brushes against my pulse point, I melt.
"Lark," he breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer on his lips.
And when his mouth crashes down on mine, there's no hesitation. No gentleness. Just desperate need and years of loneliness poured into a single kiss.
Only fire.
Only need.
Only us.
It’s the best kiss of my life, and I never want it to end.
Chapter 5
Outlaw
Ishouldn'thavekissedher.
But now that I have, I want to do it again. Want to taste her until I memorize every sweet sound she makes, until I know exactly how to make her gasp my name.
Lark doesn't say anything when I pull away. She just stands there with her lips parted and swollen, eyes wide and dark, like she's been sucker-punched. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I can see the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her throat.
And I stand there like a damn fool, every muscle in my body tight with restraint, hands still shaking from touching her.
"Sorry," I mutter, turning away before I do something stupid—like kiss her again. "That was… I shouldn't have done that."
"Why not?" she asks softly behind me, and her voice is rough.
I clench my jaw, staring at the fire like it holds answers. "Because I'm not that guy. Not anymore."
"What guy?" Her voice is closer now, and I can feel the heat of her body behind me. "The kind who kisses women who break into your cabin?"
I hear the smile in her words, but I don't turn around.Can't.Because if I look at her right now, with her lips still swollen from my mouth and her hair messed from my fingers, I'll lose what little control I have left.
"I don't get to want things," I say. "Not with a reputation like mine."
She's quiet for a beat, and I wonder if she's finally understanding. Finally seeing me for what I am.
Because I may not have killed a man, but I served hard time with men who did. I had to do things in prison to survive that I’m not proud of. I still bear the scars on my knuckles from a guy whose teeth I knocked out. It was self-defense—I have a scar on my face to prove it—and he didn’t die, so my sentence wasn’t extended. But still… prison changes a man. I have demons.
