Page 34 of Tide of Treason
“Who?”
“That guy you were with.”
“Dante?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Even the name was douchey.
“He’s very attractive,” she said, voice bored.
I rolled my aching jaw. “Okay.”
“He’s Italian.”
“Okay,” sharper.
“He has kind eyes.”
I nearly spat. “Okay,”—this time, couldn’t keep the bite out.
“Are you done?” Soft.
Reaching out, I hooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. I wanted to see if that spark in her eyes would flinch, if she’d back down from the challenge she’d been throwing at me all night. Her tongue flicked out, wet her cherry-red lips, and, not thinking, I slid a thumb along the seam. Soft. Warm. So goddamnrealit hit me like a fist to thechest, punching a noise out of me.
Kayla didn’t seem to miss it either, gaze honing in. “Do you want to know what his lips taste like?”
My jaw tightened at her question. “No.”
“Liar,” she whispered, gaze on my mouth now.
I felt something inside my chest shudder, then settle, that warm weight at the back of my neck. It was the closest we’d been in months. The closest we’d ever been, period. Every nerve in my body vibrated with the knowledge of it.
Still, when she moved, nothing could’ve braced me for the way her lips closed over my bottom one. Sucked. Slid her tongue against it, as if she’d dreamed it for months and was tasting to be sure the fantasy matched the real thing. Opening on a groan, her mouth moved over mine in lethargic sweeps, and fuck, I was admittedly out of my league here. Every bruise I’d ever earned felt worth it if it led to this split-second between heartbeats where hate blurred into craving and the rest of the world went dark. Her nose brushed mine; she hummed a reprimand that vibrated along my jaw and straight into the hollow behind my zipper.
Tasting Kayla for the first time was satisfaction, yes, but the sort that bred starvation rather than sated it. Rage licked the seams of my control because I knew this was a spark, not a sunrise. Guilt followed on iron-soled boots, kicked harder by the ring biting my finger. Pulling back, I dragged the pad of my thumb down her pouty lip with a harsh, approving swipe.
Her glare snagged on my hand.
Went still.
Then those eyes climbed to mine, dark and verdict-cold. Pulse slamming against my throat, she slid the gold band off my finger. One heartbeat, and she tipped her chin, dropped my marriage past her teeth and . . . all the way down her throat.
Shock knifed through muscle and bone.
Was she actually—
No. No, she fucking wouldn’t—
“I want it back,” I growled.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” Same word. Meaner the second time.
I stared at the slender column of her throat, pictured my wedding band settling somewhere behind that delicate notch, catching light every time she swallowed. Fuck. The idea was obscene and mesmerizing and yeah, just sick enough to fit the warped reel that played behind my eyes on nights I forgot my pills. It was wrong. So wrong. Yet, my blood hummed with it.
