Page 34 of Accidental Groom
His nostrils flare. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?” I challenge, taking a step toward him. “Because I’m starting to wonder if your concern about bears isreallyabout bears, or if you just wanted an excuse to walk alone in the woods with me. Is that gun even real?—”
“You are still my son’s.” The words cut through my rambling like a blade, sharp and final and completely infuriating.
I glare at him. “Excuse me?”
His hands clench at his sides. “When George comes back?—”
“When George comes back?” I laugh. “It’s been two weeks, Harry. Two weeks since Matthew went to drag him home, and what does he have to show for it? Has he found him? No. He’s avoiding me harder than you are.”
Harry’s teeth clench. “Matthew will find him.”
“Will he? Because it seems a lot like your son decided he’d rather party in Croatia than honor the commitment I had to force myself to be okay with forfourteen years.” I take another step closer, irritation burning through me again. “But sure, let’s keep pretending I’m hispropertywhile he’s off doing god knows what, fucking god knows who, wanting nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” I’m close enough now to see the muscle jumping in his jaw, not hidden in the slightest. Close enough to count the flecks of gold in his green eyes, close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne that clings to his skin even after a shower. “Because I’m getting really tired of being treated like something that belongs to the Highcourt family instead of someone who gets to make her own choices, choices youclaimedyou cared about.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, then closes it again, the silence stretching between us. He shakes his head, huffing out a breath through his nose. “We should head back. It’s going to rain.”
I glance up at the entirely clear sky through the canopy. “It’s not going to rain.”
“Elena.” His voice carries a warning I can’t quite interpret, his breathing picking up as he wraps a strong hand around my forearm. “We’re going back. Now, before you get mauled by a bear, before you say something else that pisses me off, before you—gods sake,fuck it.”
Before I can process what he means, he wrenches me toward him, his free hand grabbing the back of my neck, and crashes his mouth into mine.
My gasp gets swallowed whole by his kiss, his lips bruising against mine with enough force for my teeth to graze against his. It’s not careful, not polite — just pure heat and frustration and a little unhinged.
He kisses me like I’m his problem and his solution all at once.
His hand slides to the side of my neck, his thumb pressing in beneath my jaw as he angles me, demanding more access, moresurrender. I give it to him without even thinking, my fingers fisting in the front of his stupid henley, clinging like I’m about to float right off the forest floor.
When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only to get a good breath of air in and swear —“Fuck,”— like he’s the one caught off guard by this, like he’s not the one who grabbedme.
“I shouldn’t touch you like this,” he murmurs, his mouth hovering just above mine. His fingers twitch against my skin, like they’re tempted to do more, take more, but don’t. My pulse flutters in response.
“Then why kiss me at all?” I whisper.
Silence hangs between us like a bomb waiting to go off.
His other hand lifts slowly, brushing the curve of my cheek with the backs of his fingers, his eyes flicking across my features like he’s trying to memorize each freckle.
“Because I’m an idiot,” he murmurs. “And because I keep forgetting that I shouldn’t want you.”
The way he says it makes it feel like a blade in my chest — not guilt-ridden, not with shame, but with an almost reverent frustration, as if he hates how deeply the want goes.
My breath shudders as I rest my hands on either side of his abdomen, mostly rigid flesh pulsing heat beneath them. They wander, down, down,downto the waistband of his jeans. “Then let me touch you.”
He stiffens. “Elena.”
“If you don’t want this, if I’m some obligation you’re just shouldering like a fucking martyr, if you’re not attracted to me, then tell me to stop.” My fingers hook behind the button, my thumb popping it open with one quick flick. The zipper slides down. “But if you want me…”
Just as my fingers brush against the base of the swollen length of him, he grabs my wrist instead—hard—and pulls my hand away.
His grip is firm, just shy of painful, and enough to stop my breath in my throat. “Do notever,” he says, words sharp as a knife as he lowers his mouth to my ear, “compare me to my son.”
“I didn’t?—”
