Page 165 of Sweet Ruin

“Only because I like what you do when you fall toward me.”

Her eyes flash again, and I lose the last thin thread of restraint I have been pretending is moral character rather than fear of scandal in my mother’s old kitchen.

I catch Lilah by the waist and yank her forward.

This kiss has none of the uncertainty of New Year’s. She opens for me at once. She takes my bottom lip between her teeth and pulls. I put both hands on her body because she has spent too many years hiding it and I intend to teach her better.

I grip her hips. I take her ass in both hands. I move up her waist and feel every soft inch the dress displays.

She drags my mouth to her throat.

“Kane.”

I lift her against the wall.

Lilah locks one leg around my hips and pulls me between her thighs. Her dress rises. My hand reaches bare skin above her stocking.

“Fuck, you taste good,” I growl into her mouth.

I push my hand higher beneath her dress. She opens her thighs. I touch lace and heat, and she moans.

I can have her here.

She wants me.

I have waited since the first night in her pantry to hear her admit it.

So why the fuck am I stopping?

I take my hand out from under her dress and set her down on her feet. I hold her elbow until I’m sure she has her balance, and then I step back one full step, which is the hardest thing I’ve done in ten years.

“What?” she says. Her chest is moving fast. “What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you stop?”

I don’t have a clean answer for her. I asked for this out of my own desires, never once giving a fuck what she wanted. I forced her hand at every turn.

And now she’s against my wall with her dress up, breathing like that. How the fuck am I supposed to trust that it’s real?

What if she’s only agreeing to this because I gave her nothing else to agree to?

I won’t collect a debt.

Not from her.

Not like this.

“Kane.” She’s tugging her dress down. Her face is closing up. “If this is the part where you tell me it was a mistake⁠—”

“It wasn’t a mistake.”

“Then what?”

I look at her. Flour on the apron. Hair loose and beautiful around her cheeks. Mouth swollen from mine.

“You don’t owe me this,” I say.