Page 37 of Dirty Game
It’s a stupid gesture. A human one.
She blinks at the touch, and I realize I’m shaking as badly as she is.
“You protected what’s mine,” I say. The words come out harder than I mean them to.
She looks at her hands, flexes them, then—voice so thin it almost breaks—“I am what’s yours.”
It takes a second for her to realize what she’s said.
The horror on her face is almost comical. I want to laugh, but I can’t.
She tries to back away.
I catch her face in my hands, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.
I hold her there, not tight, just enough to remind her she’s real and I’m real and this moment is happening.
“Yes,” I say, “You are.”
I lean in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.
She doesn’t move a muscle.
Our lips meet, barely—more a question than a kiss.
Her breath hitches, and for a moment I can feel her pulse through her mouth, fast and terrified and alive.
When I pull back, her eyes are huge.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for the punchline or the axe.
I let go of her and step away. My hands are steadier now.
She stands there, alone in the middle of the tiled floor, and I know I can’t touch her again… not yet.
Not unless I want to break everything between us.
Because the truth is, once I have her, I will never let her go.
I watch her as she leaves the room, the imprint of her mouth still burning on mine.
Next time, I don’t know if I’ll be able to restrain myself.
If the rest of her tastes as good as her mouth does, I’m a doomed fucking man.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rosalynn
I can't stop touching my lips.
It's been three days since he kissed me—barely kissed me, really.
Just the softest brush of his mouth against mine, so gentle I might have imagined it if not for the way my whole body had lit up like struck lightning.
Three days, and I've become someone I don't recognize.
Someone who traces her bottom lip during meetings.
