Page 8 of Sacrifice

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"We're going to regret this."

"Definitely."

"Then why?—"

"Because I can't not." I glance at her. "Because you're all I think about. Because that night ruined me for anyone else, and I'm tired of pretending it didn't."

She's quiet for a long moment. Then, "Turn left."

"Your place is right."

"I know."

I turn left.

We don't make it far. Two blocks before she says, "Pull over."

"Saga—"

"Pull the fuck over, Emil."

I find a dark spot behind an abandoned warehouse, killing the engine.

The silence is deafening.

"This doesn't mean anything," she says.

"Okay."

"I mean it. Tomorrow, we go back to?—"

I'm kissing her before she can finish.

All the want and frustration and need pouring out as I claim her mouth.

She makes a sound—protest or surrender—before her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer.

"Fuck," she gasps when we break for air. "Fuck, Emil."

"Back seat," I growl.

We fumble out of the truck, clumsy with alcohol and desperation.

I get the back door open, and then she's pulling me in after her, dress hiked up, legs wrapping around my waist.

"This is the last time," she says against my mouth.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself."

My hands are everywhere—her hair, her throat, her thighs.

Relearning territory I've dreamed about for months.

She arches against me when I bite her neck, nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.

"Missed this," I admit, too honest, too raw. "Missed you."

"Don't," she warns. "Don't make this more than it is."

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