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He tangled his fingers in my hair, pulling until my scalp burned. Still, I gave myself to him. The tension in my body slowly melted away as he glided his tongue against mine the way he’d moved it against my clit the other night. He kissed me like he hated me—the pulling of my hair and the brutal way his lips pressed against mine—and he kissed me like he loved me—the way his tongue danced with mine, slow and tender. He kissed me like he’d die without tasting me and kissing me was his lifeline.
When he finally pulled away, he pressed his lips to my forehead, loosening his grip in my hair. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you.”
“What does that even mean?”
He tipped my chin up with his finger. “Later. I promise.” He grinned at me, and I felt weightless.
My heart thundered as I watched him hop off the stage and walk past Lincoln without giving him as much as a glance, then out the door.
Lincoln stood and looked up at me. “He’s dangerous.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“No. Imean, he’s dangerous. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”
“And you do?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He stuck the toothpick back in his mouth and rolled it between his teeth. “And if you’d think real hard, dig deep enough, you would too.”
