But he can't prove it.
"You're a terrible liar, Valerie." His voice is soft. Dangerous. "But that story is just believable enough that I can't dismiss it entirely."
"It's the truth—"
"Part of it, maybe." His thumb brushes across my jaw. "The part about your family being threatened? That I believe. The terror in your eyes is real. But the rest?" He leans closer. "You're hiding something."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." His other hand slides into my hair, gripping tight. "And I'm going to find out what."
His eyes search mine for a long moment.
Then something shifts in his expression. His grip on my throat loosens slightly, and his other hand comes up to my face. Thumb brushing across my cheek, wiping away a tear that escaped.
"You're terrified." It's not a question. Observation. "Shaking. Crying. Convinced I'm about to kill you."
I nod because what else can I do?
"And yet..." His thumb drags across my jaw, and I feel the roughness of his skin catching on mine. "Your pulse isn't just racing from fear, is it?"
What?
"Your pupils are dilated. Your breath keeps catching. Your thighs are pressed together like you're trying to hide something." His face is so close now I can feel his words against my lips. "You're turned on. I have the power to always turn you own.”
"No—" The denial is automatic. "I'm not—"
"Liar." But he says it almost fondly. "Your body doesn't lie, Valerie. Even when your mouth does."
His hand slides from my throat down to my collarbone. Then lower. Palm pressing against my chest where my heart is trying to escape.
"Feel that? That's not just fear." His eyes lock onto mine. "That's attraction. Desire. Your body responding to mine even though you're terrified. Even though you know I could kill you right now."
"You're wrong—"
"Am I?"
Then he kisses me.
Brutal. Claiming. His mouth crashing against mine with no gentleness, no hesitation, just raw possession.
I should fight. Should push him away. Should do anything except what I actually do.
Which is melt into it.
Three weeks of tension explode all at once. Three weeks of watching him move through this house like a predator. Three weeks of listening to him through walls and touching myself while thinking about his hands on my throat.
All of it detonates in this kiss.
My hands come up to his chest—I don't know if I'm pushing him away or pulling him closer—and a sound escapes my throat that definitely isn't a protest.
He takes it as invitation.
His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I can't tell where I end and he begins. His tongue invades my mouth, demanding submission, taking what he wants without asking.
And I give it to him.
Because some broken part of me has wanted this since the shower. Since the gun to my forehead. Since every momenthe's touched me and walked away, leaving me desperate and confused.
