Page 12 of Wilde and Deadly

Goddamn it. He wasn’t even mad.

Annoyed? Sure. Turned on? Absolutely.

She was infuriating. Reckless. Uncontrollable. And he enjoyed the hell out of every second of it.

He let out a slow exhale, rolling his shoulders, readying for the next round. “I should’ve known.”

“You really should have. Rule number three,” she said, voice low and husky. “Always have an escape plan.” She threw the cuffs at his chest and darted past him, making a break for the door.

He lunged and managed to snag her arm just as she reached the handle. He spun her around, pinning her against the wall with his body.

“Nice try,” he said, his breath coming fast. “But you’re not getting away from me that easily.”

She laughed, and the sound rolled through him like a tidal wave of fire as she speared her hands into his hair. “Who says I’m trying to get away? This is just foreplay.”

And she captured his lips in another searing kiss. His body responded instantly, pressing her harder against the wall as his hands tangled in her hair.

In the back of his mind, a warning bell sounded. This was a mistake. He needed answers, not another night of passion that would leave him with more questions than ever. But as Rowan’s nails raked down his back, coherent thought fled.

She nipped at his bottom lip, drawing a low groan from his throat.

“Rowan,” he breathed against her mouth. “We’re not doing this?—”

“Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. “Just... shut up.”

His resolve crumbled. With a growl, he hoisted her up, and her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to the bed. He threw her onto the mattress and froze.

For a moment, all he could do was drink her in—hair mussed, lips swollen, those golden cat eyes burning with challenge and want. Wild. Untouchable. Every bit the force of nature that had been wrecking his life since the day they met.

When it came to this woman, he was utterly, helplessly doomed.

A slow, unraveling kind of doom—one he had no interest in escaping.

“Davey,” she breathed, reaching for him.

He caught her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her palm before pinning it above her head. Her breath hitched as he hovered over her, their bodies barely touching, the heat between them crackling like a live wire.

“Tell me why you ran,” he murmured against her neck, his lips grazing the delicate skin just above her pulse. He felt the way it fluttered beneath his mouth, fast and unsteady.

She arched beneath him, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. “Davey, please...”

“Tell me,” he insisted, trailing his lips lower, his teeth grazing her collarbone. His free hand slid under her shirt, fingertips skating over the smooth expanse of her stomach, feeling the tremor in her muscles.

She wasn’t faking it. She couldn’t fake the way her body reacted to him—the sharp inhale, the trail of goosebumps, the way her nipple tightened under his thumb.

She wanted him. Just as much as he wanted her.

But it wasn’t just want.

It was more. It had always been more.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

The words sent a chill through him.

He pulled back slightly, searching her face. The hunger in her eyes was still there, but it was buried under something else. Something raw and unsettled.

Regret.

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