Page 43 of One Billion Reasons

“Sure,” Miles scoffs. I step back, and he lets me go. “He was hitting on you.”

“So what if he was?” I hiss, and his eyes narrow. “Harold is handsome, he’s nice, and he doesn’t work in finance. He checks all the boxes.”

Miles’s jaw tics. “So that’s what you want?”

“I mean one day, yes. I want to fall in love.” And I want peace. And stability. Not this wild, clawing madness I feel around you.

“And you think you’re going to find love with a guy like Harold.” His face is flat. “That’s what you want? A tech bro? Or maybe an accountant? A white picket fence and two-point-five children?”

“What’s wrong with that? Harold was perfectly nice.” I frown. Miles is so angry, and I don’t understand why. I just know that I’m angry too. At his presumptuousness, at him using me for his own purposes, at his selfishness.

“Nice.” He practically spits the word. “Nice is not a compliment.”

“I’m nice.” I tip my chin up so I can look him in those stormy grey eyes.

He shakes his head and stalks forward. “You’re not nice, Lane. You’re so much more than that. And I’m not either. I’ve never wanted to be nice.” He bares his teeth, and I shiver a little. He’s crowding me against the door, his big body letting off heat I want to curl into. My chin is lifted, and my throat is bared, and it feels like I’m at his mercy. Like he’s a predator, and he has me in his sights.

“I will never be that man.” He presses one hand flat against the wall next to my head, and I freeze. “I will never be good. I will always be ruthless. I will crush anyone who tries to take what’s mine.”

My pulse is hammering at his nearness, at the way his eyes are trained on mine, at the way his tongue does a slow sweep of his lower lip.

I will crush anyone who tries to take what’s mine. And suddenly, I so badly want to be his that it’s a physical ache. His lips are so close, and his chest is broad, and his shoulders are wide enough to block out the rest of the world. So I reach up on my tiptoes and press my palms to his chest.

His eyes fly wide, and he rasps, “Fuck, Laney, please.”

It’s hard to tell if he kisses me or I kiss him, but suddenly we’re a tangle of tongue and teeth and lips and he tastes so good. Better than before, because this time, it’s real.

I gasp into his mouth, and he groans into mine. His lips are soft and firm at the same time, and he kisses me like he’s been waiting to do this since the day we met. His tongue slicks against mine, and he makes a low noise in his throat. A sound of enjoyment that I feel to my toes.

He pulls back to bite at my throat, and I shiver. Like I’m his prey. I love it, and I want more. I run my hands down those rounded shoulders, over his arms where they’re pressed against the wall. Each dip and valley of his muscles calls to me. He sucks on my neck, and my breasts tighten and my groin pulls taut.

I slip my hands into his hair and pull on the silky strands. He raises his head, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and dark with desire. His lips are a little swollen from kissing me. This is what he looked like all those years ago. A stupid thought. And then, I want what she had. I want to burn at his altar the way that faceless girl did.

I tug his head back up to mine, and I kiss him again. In that kiss is every time I’ve seen him naked, every time he looked at me across a crowded room, every time I wondered what we’d be like together. And he responds with gasping breaths and rough hands on my breasts and those slick, clever lips.

And then his hand is in my hair and he’s baring my throat to his mouth and I’m arching up into his touch. He forces the top of my dress down, and my breasts spring free and for a second, he’s frozen.

“Fuck, Lane.” He traces the top of one breast with a finger. “You’re so beautiful.” He presses his finger to the tattoo between my breasts, and I wait for a comment, but nothing comes.

He bites gently at my nipple, and I come off the wall. And then we’re stumbling, bumping into furniture, until we land on the couch. Every time he tongues my nipple, it arrows straight between my legs. He pulls me over him, and my dress gets tangled in our legs. I sob because I want to be closer to him, and he makes a frustrated sound before he yanks it up around my waist.

The sound of tearing fabric makes me freeze. “You ripped it.”

“I’ll buy you another.” He pulls me into his lap and falls upon me like he’s dying and I’m his last meal. Like a man who’s woken from a deep sleep and has finally seen the sun. I shove at his buttons and tear at his shirt until it comes free from his pants. Finally, I can smooth my hands up his abs. He shudders and tenses under my touch, hissing a breath as I dip my fingers below his waistband, where he’s hot and a little damp. For me. He’s worked up because of me.

“What are you doing?” The words are hoarse.

“I want more.”

“What do you mean, more? How far does more go?”

“I saw you once.” I trace my fingers over the ridges of his stomach. “With a girl.”

“Lane, please—”

“You literally made her scream. I want that.”

“Fuck.” The curse is soft and pained.

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