Page 85 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
His eyes met mine, defiant and vulnerable all at once. “Maybe it is.”
Maxwell’s eyes flickered down to my lips, then back up so quickly I might have imagined it—except for the way my entire body responded, a violent shiver coursing through me like a shockwave. For one wild, irrational moment, I imagined what it would be like to kiss him. Detective Dickface. The man who’d arrested me, when he was supposedto help me. The man who drove me absolutely mental. What a stupid, impossible thought.
My whole body began to quiver as a strange combination of fear and longing shot through me. And perhaps that was why I found myself saying, “So what? You care enough to lecture me but not enough to trust me to handle myself?”
“Trust has to be earned, Rory.”
“And what have I been doing all this time?” Fucking hell, what more did he want from me? With both hands, I shoved against his chest, but he barely moved. “I’ve been trying my hardest since day one to impress you.”
“Impress me?! By taking unnecessary risks?” he growled, his other hand slamming against the wall on the opposite side of my head, fully caging me in now.
The heat of his body enveloped me, and with it came that scent—raindrops on sun-baked pavement, elemental and consuming. It filled my lungs, clouding my thoughts, making my wolf stir beneath my skin.
“By making my job of keeping you safe impossible?” he continued, leaning closer until his anger seemed to radiate between us like summer heat.
“Your job,” I repeated, the words bitter on my tongue. “Right. That’s all you ever really care about.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“No, I get it. I’m just a task to be managed. Another problem for Detective Dickface to solve.”
His eyes flashed dangerously. “I’ve told you to stop calling me that.”
“Make me,” I taunted, tilting my chin up defiantly.
Maxwell’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, leaving it glistening in the lamplight.
What would those plush lips feel like against mine? Would he taste of the mint I could smell on his breath, or the red wine he’d had with dinner? Or would he taste like he smelled—like the promise of rain, likerelief after unbearable heat? Would he hold me so softly, or clutch me tightly, while he—
With a growl that sounded almost feral, he grabbed the back of my neck and crushed his mouth against mine.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was pure frustration and pent-up anger—all teeth and desperation.
I gasped against his mouth, shocked to my core, my body frozen between fight and surrender.
For one long, suspended moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
Then something primal took over. I fisted the collar of his shirt, rising to my tiptoes to return his kiss with equal ferocity. My tongue slid against the seam of his lips, demanding entry, and when he opened to me, he made a pleased sound deep in his throat that vibrated through my entire body.
Was I unconscious? Was this some outlandish fever dream brought on by my injuries?
The cool metal of Maxwell’s wire-framed glasses grazed my cheek as I tilted my head. His other hand found my waist, fingers digging into bare skin so tightly it was as though he were afraid I might disappear—or perhaps fighting the urge to pull me even closer.
The blanket slipped dangerously low, barely clinging to my hips. His hand on my neck slid up to tangle in my hair, and I fit our mouths together more firmly. The stubble along his jaw rasped against my palm, my fingers delighting in collecting this new sensory detail about a man I’d only ever observed from a safe distance.
No, this wasn’t a fever dream. Dreams faded at the edges—this only grew sharper, more intense with each passing second. Dreams couldn’t make your pulse race like this, couldn’t make your skin burn where his fingers pressed into flesh.
He removed any space between us to press me against the wall. I slipped a hand under his button-down shirt to trace the contours of his abdomen and his breathing hitched. I quickly swallowed the sound, savouring it like a secret I’d stolenfrom him.
Everything grew hazy except for the feel of his solid chest beneath my hand, the way our lips moved together, and the heat of his breath mingling with mine. A hunger began to build, spreading through my veins like wildfire. I pushed my tongue deeper, groaning at the silky heat of his mouth, at the way he tasted of that minty toothpaste, but also so much more.
Beneath the artificial spearmint lay something intoxicating—something that matched his scent perfectly. Like the first rainfall after a drought, like thunder breaking silence, like salvation.
When we finally broke apart, both gasping for air, his eyes were dark and wild, his lips swollen. I stared at him, my brain struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
“This is completely unprofessional,” he murmured, voice ragged.
“What, has the great Detective Maxwell finally lost control?” I said, inches from his lips. I pulled back slightly to reach up to pluck his glasses from his face. “Let’s see if removing these helps you to relax.”
