"I mean it."
"I don't need him dead, Seven," I whispered, trying to keep the flutter in my stomach under control. "I just want him to pay for what he did."
"He will."
Our eyes met, and we stared at each other for a long time. I felt that same familiar buzz just below my skin I felt every time he was near. Ilifted both hands to his face and slowly grabbed the upper edge of the bandana.
He didn't stop me.
I pulled the fabric down his face, exposing it completely.
His jaw was cleanly shaved, and I wanted to touch it. I wanted to see if his skin was as smooth as it looked in the moonlight the other night. I wanted to kiss those lips to make sure I hadn't dreamt of it.
He was ethereal.
His mouth was a little asymmetric, the top lip fuller than the bottom. The thin scar at the corner was real, not a figment of my imagination. He looked tired. He looked like he hadn't slept in years. But he was stunning.
I couldn't resist. I ran my index finger gently over the scar and along his cheek. His jaw tightened at my touch. He looked into my eyes, but remained silent.
I moved closer.
Our bodies were separated by an inch of heated space.
"Kimmy," he started.
I launched myself at him, pressed my mouth to his.
It wasn't a romantic move. It was animalistic, unplanned, driven by the weeks of terror and tension, and everything I'd tried not to feel.
He didn't move at first as if shocked by my boldness.
Then his mouth slacked a little, molding against mine as if testing the waters.
His lips moved, crashing mine. He kissed me back like he was dying. Like he'd spent his whole life waiting to breathe, and this was his first hit of oxygen.
His hands curled around my neck gently and cupped my face. I couldn't tell where I ended and he began anymore. It was rough and desperate, then soft, then rough again, like he was fighting his own body for control.
His tongue parted my lips and slipped inside, licking mine. I gasped from the contact, felt electricity rushing down my chest and to my stomach, and then there was fire between my thighs.
Oh God. What was happening to me? I'd never once wanted a man so badly, not after the penthouse party.
I did now.
And it felt almost as if I didn't get to have him, I'd combust and burn in this blaze.
We kept on kissing until we ran out of air. He'd pull back, suck in a lungful and would kiss my cheek or my jaw next, or slide his lips over thebruising on my neck as if erasing away all the hurt, all the damages inflicted by someone else.
Then he suddenly stopped, drew back an inch, just enough to put some distance between our mouths. His forehead was still pressed to mine. His breath was ragged, almost as if he was running out of gas.
"This is a bad idea," he whispered.
"Why?"
"You don't know what I am."
"I don't care," I said, and I meant it.
He grabbed my face in both hands, held it there. "I'm not the man for you, Kimmy. I'm bad. Rotten on the inside. Damaged goods."
