Page 31 of Surrender
His pulse kicked up.
Her breathing shifted.
He reached for her slowly. His hand found her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. Her lips parted beneath his touch. “Ruby…”
“Don’t call me that right now.”
There was a lie between them. But there was also this—this fire, this pull, this impossible knowing.
He didn’t press for more. Whatever secret she was holding could wait its damn turn.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he said. “This doesn’t make any sense yet somehow…”
“I know what you mean: Cinniúint.” Fate.
He nodded slowly. He felt it, down to the bone. “If you stay…” he said, voice low and unsteady. “I won’t be able to pretend I’m not half-crazed for you.”
“I don’t want you to pretend,” she whispered.
His arms tightened around her as he kissed her like a man who had been starving for years. Every hour since she first walked into his pub had been exquisite torment.
Her mouth was soft, but insistent, her fingers threading through his hair and pulling him closer like she could never get enough. He was right there with her.
The kiss deepened—turned hungry. Teeth grazed, tongues tangled, breath mingled and stolen. She tasted like smooth whiskey and something wild, something untamable. And God, he wanted to lose himself in her.
His hands slipped beneath her shirt, skimming warm skin and the delicate dip of her waist. She gasped, arching into him. He kissed her harder, one hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair, dragging a moan from deep in her throat.
Keefe grinned—feral and wrecked—and picked her up like she weighed nothing. Startled, she laughed as he set her on the prep table and stepped between her legs. His palms slid along her thighs, pushing her skirt higher, seeking skin, while her hands disappeared beneath his T-shirt, fingers tracing the hard planes of his stomach, his chest, his back.
Her breath hitched as his mouth found her neck. She clutched his shoulders, nails biting into muscle when he grazed the spot just below her ear.
“You smell like cherry blossoms,” he murmured, voice thick. “And something else I can’t place.”
Trouble. That’s what it was. And God, it was intoxicating.
“Does it matter?” she whispered.
“Not one damn bit.”
She dragged him down for another kiss—slower this time. Deeper. Less frantic, more dangerous. Because in that moment, it wasn’t just lust sparking between them. It was something older.
Something with teeth.
Something that wanted more.
“Still glad you came?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She didn’t answer right away, catching her breath. Then, softly: “I told you—I couldn’t stay away. Just kiss me again.”
He did.
God, he did.
Their mouths met in a kiss that burned—hungry and messy, laced with desperation and the sharp ache of inevitability. Her body molded against his, all softness and heat, as she moaned—low, throaty, dangerous—and it nearly undid him.
His hands slid under her jacket, skimming her sides. “Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmured, voice raw against her lips.
She looked up, her eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare stop.”
