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“Yes. You do.”
He goes still. So do I, the second it tumbles from my lips. Alistair turns back to me, eviscerating me with that razor gaze.
“I said, I don’t?—”
“But you do,” I repeat quietly. “You do give a shit.”
My pulse is roaring in my veins, making every inch of my skin tingle. The nearness of him—the heat of his body, the spicy clean scent of him—throbs against me, like there’s a dark magnetic power under the surface pulling me closer.
His eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“Of?” I choke.
“Me.”
My body quivers as a tremor of heat chases through me.
“Why?” I breathe. “Because you’re just as dangerous as you were before?”
His lips curl dangerously. “No,” he murmurs. “Because I’m much more dangerous than I was before.”
My breath comes fast and shallow, my chest rising and falling quickly, my breasts almost touching him from how close we are. His hand tightens on my shirt. My pulse hums like an engine in my ears.
“Interesting,” I mumble quietly. “How much more dang?—”
“This much.”
That’s when his lips crush punishingly to mine.
When my world turns upside down.
And when the walls inside me suddenly lie in shattered ruins.
13
ALISTAIR
Part of me rebels when it happens—a screaming part of me that seethes with rage and betrayal when I grab Eloise and slam my mouth to hers.
But I swallow that down, along with her moans.
Because even though my initial self-loathing when I kiss her comes from the fact that it feels like I’m giving her what she wants, despite everything she’s done to me, there’s a flip side to it.
I’m not giving her a thing.
I’m taking what I want.
Whatever our past, whatever our sins, at the end of the day, this woman drives me fucking insane in a way no woman ever did before, or ever will. I haven’t been a saint in the ten years since Eloise LeBlanc crashed into me. But there’s not a single face I can remember. Not a single night I can replay. I’d honestly be hard pressed to recall a name.
With Eloise, I remember. Fucking. Everything.
Every gasp. Every kiss. Every touch, every single second that she was mine. I couldn’t burn it out with booze, drugs, sex, or any other poison I could find. So when my lips taste hers, it’s like waking up from a coma.
None of that means I have to feel a goddamn thing for her, of course. This isn’t about emotions. It’s purely chemical and physical. It’s pheromones, nothing more.
Christ, who even fucking knows.
The point is, I don’t have to forgive her to fuck her. I don’t have to care about whatever drama or bullshit she’s got going on in her marriage to Massimo.
