Page 107 of Mourner for Hire
“Oh, fuck you.” I toss my head back slightly, and he laughs, low, deep, and obnoxious.
“You like to say that.”
My jaw tightens. This burning need to slap him, scream at him, or burn him alive fumes inside me. I don’t say anything. I don’t break eye contact. I hold his gaze, challenging him. What the dare is, I don’t know, but something in his eyes tells me I’m going to lose.
I inhale before speaking. “I hate you,” I whisper.
He moves even closer until we’re heartbeat to heartbeat. We aren’t quite touching, but I can feel the heat of his skin radiating against mine.
“You don’t,” he says.
I open my mouth to protest or admit that he’s right, but I don’t have the chance to say anything. He cups my neck with his hand, pressing me against the wall, and I grip the back of his shirt, pulling him closer to me, letting my body ride up against his. I’m elevated off the floor, legs wrapped around his waist. He has one hand wrapped around my neck and jaw and the other pressed against my hip bone, pinning me against the wall right next to the hole in the wall.
Before I can process our hate turning to physical need, his mouth is on mine, and our tongues tangle together in a synchronized yet angry rhythm. His tantalizing fingers grip the hem of my shirt—his shirt—and he glides his fingertips under the soft cotton ofmy shorts.
The pressure from his body against mine, mixed with the faulty strength of the broken drywall behind me, causes the plaster to crack, and my entire body falls two inches into the wall.
I let out a laugh, and the rumble of his laugh grazes the sensitive flesh of my neck.
It does nothing to deter us from practically devouring each other. I can feel him harden against me with every kiss and touch as I pull at his shirt. His lips move to my neck, trailing my skin with wet, hot kisses, making me pant into the night air.
You hate him,my mind protests while my body says,No, you absolutely don’t.
I grip his hair and yank his head back. We stare at each other for a moment, a dare passing between our gaze. Me daring him to do it. Him daring me to stop it.
It would seem he loses the bet, claiming my mouth again. Hard, wet kisses. Large, strong hands. One single pulse between us. The need for him is primal, and I pull at his shirt, slipping it off his head and tossing it on the kitchen counter.
His mouth barely leaves mine, and his hands rake over my body like he is committing every curve to memory.
I run my hands over his shoulders, gripping his back muscles and pulling him closer.
“Dominic.” I breathe his name with a heavy pant and unbutton the top of his jeans.
He jerks back, setting me down with a movement so swift, it makes me feel like I was just dropped in a cold plunge. His gaze is glued to the ceiling. His jaw is pulsing. I can physically feel the restraint in his fingertips.
“I can’t—” He shakes his head. “I can’t do this.”
“Relax, dude. I’m not going to ask you to marry me,” I say, breathing heavily and swiping my thumb over my wet lower lip.
He steps over to me with heavy footsteps. “That wasn’t how our next kiss was supposed to go.”
I inhale sharply, wishing I had words to respond, but I don’t.Our next kiss…like he’s been planning that and not how to drive me out of town.
“I have to go,” he says, his voice low.
He doesn’t even look at me before turning and leaving out the front door.
THIRTY-NINE
DOMINIC
The yellow dasheson the road pass in a blur as I make my way back to the bar. There are only a few regulars and, to my surprise, a bachelorette party. I nod at Chelsey from across the bar to make sure she still has everything under control. When she offers me a salute, I head straight upstairs to my apartment.
I kick off my shoes and flop back on my bed with one painful thought coursing through my mind: Vada makes me lose control.
I don’t like it. I didn’t ask for it. And it is completely out of my norm. I am measured. I’m prepared. I take care of whatever needs taking care of. She unsteadies me.
I think about it over and over as I will myself to sleep.
