Page 17 of Burned

“She is not between us.”

“She was outside with those men. She was in your silence. She was in your face when Rafe said her name.” Her breath shakes. “So don’t tell me she isn’t between us.”

I lean in until my mouth hovers over hers. I still, my eyes finding hers, my lips brushing against hers. “She’s not in my bed.”

“No,” she says, finally. “I am. And I don’t plan on sharing it with a ghost.”

“You won’t.” The words snap out with the last of my restraint.

I claim her lips. Not gently. Not sweetly.

My mouth takes hers with all the fear, fury, and need tearing through me.

She makes a sound against me that nearly unmans me, half protest, half surrender, her hands gripping the front of my coat.

I back her toward the wall. She goes because she wants to. Then she shoves my chest.

Hard.

I stop instantly. We are both breathing too fast.

Her lips are wet. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are bright with anger, desire, and all the pain I have not yet earned the right to soothe.

“No,” she says again. This time, the word is breathless.

This time, it is not rejection.

It is a line.

I respect lines.

Even when I want to destroy every single one of them.

Even when she crosses mine.

I step back. Only one step. It nearly kills me.

As does the tightening in my groin.

Erin’s fingers curl at her sides. “I want the truth first,” she says.

“You have it.”

“Not all of it,” she accuses.

“No,” I admit. “Not all of it.”

She nods as if she expected that. She’s grown used to half-truths from being with a mafia man.

“What happens now?” Her gaze drops to the floor between us.

A dozen answers move through me, all related to the plans I need to make with the men to secure our safety. But that’s not what she’s asking. She wants to know what happens to us.

We stay, us.

I look at her coat. My coat. The snow is melting on her boots. The flush on her throat. The pulse beating too fast beneath the skin I know the taste of.

“You crossed my boundary,” I say. “You broke my rule.”