Page 263 of Immune

Her eyes drop then. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“Nope,” I answer quickly.

“You’re sure?”

“Tiny Terror, I’m Welsh. I can be incredibly dramatic about the weather, rugby, and shitty tea. Not about you being wanted by someone who treats you like you’re a person.” Her fingers finally loosen slightly in my shirt, and I let my thumb brush the edge of her jaw as I continue. “What happened with Xeon is yours and his. I’m not here to take it. I’m not here to measure against it either.”

Her eyes shine in the dim room, and then she whispers, “I want this to be yours too.”

“Then it is,” I tell her simply.

Her breath shatters at that very moment, and then her mouth is on mine. Not soft and not careful. Dakota kisses like she fights. Direct and furious and deeply offended by the idea of hesitation. I meet her right there, one hand at her waist while theother slides up to the back of her neck. She shivers when I finally meet bare skin under the edge of her hairline.

The music continues to pulse from the player next to us.

A beat.

A thread.

Her hips move over mine, rough enough to make my vision spark, and I can’t help but groan into her mouth. She does it again, because Dakota is an actual menace, and then she whispers against my lips, “Sensitive?”

“Wildly offended by your cruelty,” I counter.

“Good.”

I laugh against her mouth, and she bites my bottom lip hard enough to shut me up, warming everything up a little bit more. The storage room shrinks to her weight in my lap, her scent filling my lungs, and her hands working under my shirt like she’s decided my skin deserves a thorough inspection.

I help her tug the hem up just enough for her palms to brush over my stomach. Her fingers are warm and her nails scrape across my skin lightly, and my laugh dies in my throat so quickly I almost fucking choke on it.

She notices, too. Of course she does.

“That shut you up,” she murmurs against my lips.

“Kota, I’m literally one bad decision away from embarrassing myself in a cupboard.”

Her mouth curves, and once again, she mutters, “Good.”

“Cruel, cruel woman.”

“Still touching me, though,” she points out, rocking her hips once more and sending my brain into oblivion.

“Never once did I say I was smart,” I tell her, my hands sliding under the edge of her shirt, reaching her waist.

Skin.

Warm.

Real.

She shivers when my thumbs brush over the soft spot above her hips. Just feeling her under my hands sends sparks through me. Then she rocks against me, and the pressure makes both of us breathe wrong.

I can feel how hot she is even through the layers. I can feel the slick want gathering in her scent, turning the small room thick with honey and rain and need. My knot aches something fierce, heavy and insistent and pressing against my trousers, and Dakota feels it.

Her eyes drop.

Then lift. Slowly.

“Is that uncomfortable?”