“Why not?” I reply, fingers still tracing patterns under his shirt. “I wanted you to have a chance to catch up with your mom.”
“Bullshit,” Vincent snaps, eyes meeting mine. “You had no right.”
“No right?” My hand stills against his skin. “She’s your mother, Vincent. She cried for months after you left. Years.”
Guilt flickers across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by anger.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You don’t know anything.”
“Then tell me.” I lean closer again, our foreheads almost touching. “Tell me why you left. Tell me why you’re dancing in that club instead of performing ballet like you were meant to. Tell me why you flinch every time I mention my father.”
Vincent’s breath comes faster now, his chest rising and falling against mine. “Let me go, Alex.”
I let my lips brush against his neck, just below his ear. His skin is hot, pulse racing beneath my mouth. I breathe him in—sweat and cologne and something uniquely Vincent.
“Ya skuchalpo tebe,” I murmur in Russian, the language smooth and intimate in the darkness.I’ve missed you.
Vincent goes rigid against me. I taught him some Russian during those long summer afternoons when we were teenagers, when he would sit in my room for hours, listening to me practice the language my father insisted I master.
“Stop it,” he whispers, but there’s no conviction in it.
“Ty pomnish kak ya uchil tebya?“ I continue, my lips ghosting over his jaw.Do you remember how I taught you?
His breathing stutters, eyes closing briefly before snapping open again. “Alex, don’t—”
“Moy prekrasnyy Vincent,” I murmur.My beautiful Vincent.My hand slides around to his lower back, finding those two perfect dimples I’d glimpsed at The Siren.
I’m not entirely sure what the fuck I’m doing, touching him like this. I know I have no right to, but I just can’t help myself. Having Vincent so close to me after all those years of separation is intoxicating, and I think it’s driving me a little mad.
“Fuck you,” Vincent spits, but it comes out breathless, desperate. His body betrays him, arching into my touch even as he struggles against my grip on his wrists.
“Maybe later,” I reply with a smirk. “If you ask nicely.”
The fury that flashes across his face is magnificent—pure fire in those amber eyes.
I don’t even try to stop myself. My hand fists in Vincent’s soft, pretty hair, jerking his head back, and I slam my mouth onto his. There’s nothing gentle about it. Our teeth click, lips mashing, breath mingling in a mess of heat and saliva and pent-up fury. I expect him to fight, to twist away, maybe even bite—but he doesn’t. He freezes for a split second, then melts, lips parting with a gasp, and for a heartbeat it feels like I’m drowningin him.
A low, broken noise escapes from deep in his throat. He kisses me back, hard, reckless, like he’s starved for it. Like he’s just as fucked up as I am. His tongue skims my lower lip, and I let him in, tasting him—bitter coffee, cheap bourbon, and that dark, stubborn sweetness that’s purely his.
He sucks in air through his nose, fingers clenching in the front of my shirt, dragging me closer, if that’s even possible. I feel the line of his body against mine—every shiver, every stutter of his pulse, every way he tries to pretend this isn’t happening.
I release his other wrist to grab his jaw, angling his head to deepen the kiss. I drink him in, consuming his anger, his confusion, his desire. My hand slides to his throat, feeling his pulse hammer against my palm as I break the kiss to breathe.
We stare at each other, both gasping for air. Vincent’s lips are red and swollen, his pupils blown wide with want or rage or both. There’s gold glitter in his hair—remnants from his performance tonight that catch the dim light.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” I challenge, voice rough with need. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
Vincent’s eyes flicker with something complicated. His chest heaves against mine, both of us breathing the same heated air.
“I hate you,” he whispers, but his body tells a different story.
“No, you don’t.” I tighten my grip on his throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel his pulse jump. “You’re just scared of me.”
“Fuck you,” he repeats, but the words lack conviction.
“You already said that.” I lean in again, nipping at his lowerlip. “Come up with something new.”
His hand fisting my shirt tightens, pulling me back to look at him. “Why are you doing this?”
