That’s all he says, but it’s enough. Mr. GT stumbles to his feet then turns toward his car.
I’m still on the trunk, my breast exposed, but he ignores me and clambers into the driver’s seat. As the engine fires, I adjust my shirt, then slide off the car and stalk toward Alex as the BMW starts moving backwards, eager to be free of the crazy people. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, then shove him hard with both hands.
He catches my wrists and pulls me close. “What am I doing?” His voice is lower and harder and more dangerous than I remember. If I’d been courting danger, I definitely found it. “What the hell are you doing?”
“None of your goddamn business,” I snap as Mr. GT squeals off into the night.
I’m only inches from him, my heart pounding as he continues to hold me tight. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t react. Not a twitch of a muscle. Not the slightest change in the diameter of his pupils. He simply stands there, his eyes hard on mine, as a firestorm of electricity crackles around us.
Then his hand relaxes, and I jerk my wrist away. I smile, knowing perfectly well that I won this round.
“Don’t push me, Ellie,” he says, his low-pitched voice as sharp as steel. And that’s when I realize I haven’t won a single, goddamn thing.
I take a step back, trying to gather myself. “Push you? You’re the one who barged into my party.”
“You were just going to fuck him? Here? In the parking lot.”
“Technically, he was going to fuck me. But that’s the general idea, yes. Why not? He seems like a nice enough guy. And you know what I was going to do afterwards?”
I step closer so that I’m only inches from him. So that I can practically feel the waves of fury rolling off him. “Leave,” I say. “I was going to walk away and never see the guy again. But you’re an expert at that, aren’t you?”
“This?” There’s fire in his tone and in his eyes. “You’re comparing some guy fucking you on the trunk of his car to what we had?”
“What we had?” My voice rises with incredulity. “We didn’t have shit.”
“The hell we didn’t.” He reaches for me again, and though I should back away, I don’t. I let him capture both my wrists in one hand, then pull me even closer, so that my elbows are bent and my hands are fisted between my breasts and his chest. He’s so close that I can smell him, all musk and sweat and memories, and my bare arms brush lightly against his shirt as he breathes.
“We had an illusion,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the heat rising from his proximity. “Fuck and run, right? But it doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Doesn’t it?” He bends closer, lowering his head so that his lips are by my ear. “I know you, Ellie. I know exactly what it means.”
I swallow, grateful he can’t see my eyes. “You don’t know me at all. And considering the circumstances, I think it’s safe to say I really don’t know you.”
He twists us around, the quick motion making me gasp as my back lands hard against the side of a car.
“Don’t I? You really think I don’t know you? I know you want the rush. The danger. But sweetheart, you don’t have a clue about danger. That guy you picked up? There’s no risk there. None at all. But me?” His words are like a knife edge, and he’s slicing me to the bone. “Me, I could destroy you.”
“Too late for that.” I practically spit the words. “You broke me a long time ago.”
He pulls back, and for a moment I think I’ve won. He’s going to let me walk away, smug in my Pyrrhic victory. But then our eyes meet, and in the next moment, his mouth crushes mine as he releases his hold on my wrists.
I have the idle thought that I should slap him again, just for show. But I don’t. Instead, I bury my fingers in his hair, pulling it free from the loose tie at the base of his neck so that it falls over my hands. I pull him closer as our mouths war with each other, tongues sparring and teeth clashing as if all either of us wants is to be consumed by the fire that now rages inside me.
This was what I’d needed tonight. And though some voice in my head tells me to run—to escape this surreal nightmare—I stay rooted to the spot. Craving heat. A connection. Anything to burn away that raw, hungry need inside me.
With my other hand I cup his ass even as he roughly shoves his hand into my jeans, still conveniently unzipped. I’m incredibly wet, and I break our kiss to suck in air as he thrusts three fingers inside me, and I grind against his hand, so lost in sensation that my only cogent thought is more.
“Dangerous enough for you?” His words are low and sensual but edged with fire. “You don’t even know what danger is, Ellie. Forget getting caught. You play with me, and you really will get burned. And this skin,” he adds as his other hand caresses the swell of my breast, “is far too beautiful to scorch.”
I whimper, trying to process his words. Telling myself that I should stop this. That this is a very bad decision, and I shouldn’t want him.
Except I do want this, and my brain is far too lust-hazed to make any distinction between the man and the sensations he’s rousing in my body.
And so I do the only thing I can do—I surrender. I let myself slide away into the pleasure of his lips, his touch. I want more than his fingers inside me. I want him to strip me bare and take me on the hood of the car. I want his hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming and drawing attention as he makes me come.
I want all of that, and I hate myself for it. Because this is how I’ve both punished and rewarded myself for so many years, and it was all because of him.
Now he’s the one holding me, touching me, and I’m melting with pleasure when I should be running. Hell, I should be slapping the shit out of him and demanding explanations. But I’m not. I’m giving in to animal instinct. Wild pleasure. And though I will surely hate myself tomorrow, right now all I want is what he’s giving.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, and I realize that my hips are moving of their own volition. I tell myself to stop, but I only grind faster. Harder. I want him deep inside me, his fingers teasing my most sensitive spots. And oh, God, this is so messed up. So seriously, righteously fucked up.
“Please,” I say, fumbling for his jeans.
“No.” His voice soft. Even gentle. “This is only for you. Come for me, baby. Let yourself go.”
I whimper, and though I know it shouldn’t, the idea that he’s doing this for me—that he’s giving me even a single moment of pleasure after all of our past—pushes me right over the edge. I gasp, then suck in air as I shatter, my body shaking and quivering as he pulls me close and I ride out the tremors that cut through me like sonic waves of bliss.
After what seems like an eternity, the tremors fade, and I’m left in the circle of his arms, trying to decide if I should be running or rejoicing. If I should be mortified or satisfied.
And somehow, I can’t seem to find the right answer.
“Alex…” His name slips out of my lips, as weak as a lost child crying for help.
He rests his finger over my lips. “Devlin,” he says in the voice of a statesman proclaiming the law. “My name is Devlin.”