Page 96 of Bittersweet

One hand moves to her hip.

Her lips loosen, open slightly, her breath becoming erratic.

She wants this.

I can’t tell if it’s because she wants to forget or if that’s an excuse.

I don’t know if I’ll regret this in ten minutes or an hour or a year.

But I do know I can’t go a single moment longer without kissing this woman.

So my other hand moves to the back of her neck as my lips crash to hers.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not some kind of bond being built, the start of something beautiful and everlasting.

No, it’s hot, and it’s angry, and it’s filled with the tension we’ve both been creating and avoiding. My teeth clash with hers as her mouth opens to mine, my tongue entering her mouth and tangling with hers, tasting her. Coffee and cookies.

The same as that first time.

My teeth nip her lip hard, probably close to drawing blood, but she is as lost as I am, moaning at the sensation. I take two steps until she’s pinned to the wall. My hand on the back of her head gathers her braids, tugging her back hard, drawing another moan from her as my hand angles her head better to get more, to fight her until she gives me everything.

My mind goes back to having her pinned against the hall in the landing between our apartments, how she whimpered my name as she came. About how fucking badly I wanted to fuck her until we both had this attraction out of our systems.

Funny, because right now, I don’t think I’ll ever actually get this woman out of my system.

That thought should scare me.

Instead, it fuels me.

Every molecule in my body yearns for this woman.

But not here.

And sure as fuck not now.

When I break the kiss, releasing her braids and her body, she mewls in protest.

“Is the back door locked?” I ask, forehead to hers, panting.

“Wha—?” she asks, her voice woozy like she’s not all here.

In any other situation, I’d smile.

Right now, I’m fighting the urge to both fuck her and run down the boardwalk and rip someone’s throat out.

“The front door. It doesn’t lock?” This question I know the answer to.

“It doesn’t click. It doesn’t . . . not always . . . and I called Brad to get it fixed, but . . .” I sigh.

“But Brad doesn’t fucking fix anything.” She just blinks.

“Back door?”That one I know locks.She just chooses to forget about it.

“What?”

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