Page 61 of Bitter Rival

The cold, infuriating, arrogant, rude man who charged in on his steed to rescue the damsel in distress.

The feminist in me is raging against it. You don’t want him. You don’t even like him half the time. You know how to take care of yourself. You don’t need a man to do it for you.

He’s not the guy for you. Cease and desist.

But my raging hormones are arguing. But come on, that was sexy. Did you see the way he charged in and took care of business? Who doesn’t want a man defending their honor?

“Beckett.” My voice is hushed like we’re in a church or a public library.

“Daisy.”

I lift my hand to his face, cup his cheekbone, and brush my thumb over the stubble on his jaw.

His Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow and I can feel his body tensing, that’s how close we are. “If I kiss you, will you turn into a prince?”

He looks at me through hooded eyes. “Would you like that?” he asks, his voice low, raspy.

“No. Not even a little bit.” It feels like the point of no return. A moment I should be running from, not inviting. But I’ve never had the best impulse control and I’m honestly questioning how I’ve resisted him for this long. So I look him right in the eye and give him a little smile. “I’ve always preferred the Beast.”

His blue eyes darken, and I have no idea how I could have ever thought they were cold. They smolder. “Then you’ve come to the right castle.”

He yanks me against his hard body and grabs my chin forcefully, almost punishingly. “Last chance to run, princess.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

No sooner are the words out than his lips crash against mine like a thunderstorm.

It feels like my body is going to burst from the rush of adrenaline as hot, expert lips claim mine.

His hands grip my hips as he deepens the kiss and sucks my tongue into his mouth, releasing a feral groan that has me clenching my thighs.

I grab his face in my hands and press my body flush with his, desperate to erase every inch of space between us.

There is nothing sweet about this kiss. It’s raw. It’s feral. It’s filled with weeks of pent-up frustration and anger.

Our tongues are dueling, fighting for dominance. I claw his shoulders. He fists my hair, yanking it hard to expose the column of my neck.

He brands my skin with his lips. His teeth graze my jaw.

I sink my nails into his shoulders through the cotton T-shirt as his hands coast down the backs of my thighs and then he’s lifting me off the ground.

My legs cinch around his waist and he spins us around and pins me against the wall of books.

He’s hard, everywhere. So hard that my back arches off the wall and my core clenches as he rolls his hips.

I moan. He groans.

I sink my teeth into his full bottom lip to punish him. For what, I don’t know. For being him. For making me want him when I know I shouldn’t.

He growls in response and bares his teeth like the beast I was trying to awaken and gives me one more bruising kiss before pulling away.

We’re both panting and it takes a moment to come back to earth and remember where I am.

I can’t say if that kiss lasted minutes or hours but I’m still pinned between his body and the wall of books, so I see the moment when it hits him.

Regret washes over his face, and I can almost write the script, that’s how certain I am that he’s going to make me wish I’d never asked for this.

“Fuck.” His forehead drops against mine. “This was a bad fucking idea.”

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