Page 159 of What We Bury

He lifts my hand.

Slowly. Deliberately. Watching my face the whole time, giving me every opportunity to pull away. I don’t.

He brings my finger to his mouth and his tongue traces the cut. A slow, warm stroke that collects the blood and sends a shock of sensation straight through my core. Then his lips close around my fingertip and hesucks, gently, his eyes locked on mine, and the sound I make is not pain.

He releases my finger. His lips are stained faintly red.

“That’s not first aid,” I whisper.

“No,” he agrees. His voice has dropped low and rough. “It’s not.”

FORTY-THREE

SAGE

We’re standing too close. Holden’s hand still wrapped around my wrist, his thumb pressed against my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is hammering.

“Holden—”

“Wildcat.” His free hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I taste the faint copper of my own blood on his skin. “Tell me to stop and I will. Right now. No questions, no pressure, no?—”

This isn’t forgiveness for Milo. It isn’t me trying to outrun what just happened. And it isn’t Holden taking anything from me.

It’s my blood, my anger, my want.

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to me.

The kiss is a collision. His mouth hot and demanding, his hand fisting in my hair, his body pushing me back against the counter until the edge digs into my spine and I don’t care, I don’t care about anything except the taste of him and the way his free hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise.

He kisses like it’s a fight, aggressive, strategic, reading every response and adjusting in real time. When I gasp, he swallows it. When I bite his lip, he groans against my mouth and presses harder. When my hands slide under his shirt and rake up his back, he breaks the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head and throw it somewhere behind him.

I stare. Because Holden without a shirt is a problem. Broad shoulders, defined chest, a tattoo that winds from his ribs around to his back. Something dark and intricate that I want to map with my fingers. A body built for exactly this, for pressing a woman against a counter and making her forget every rational thought she’s ever had.

“See something you like?” he asks, grinning like a wolf showing its teeth.

“Quit being cocky and kiss me.”

He lifts me onto the counter in one motion. My legs wrap around his waist and he steps between them, his hands sliding up my thighs, pushing my shirt higher. The cold countertop against my bare skin, his hot mouth on my neck, the contrast making me shiver and arch into him at the same time.

“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs against my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. “Since I had you against that wall on day one. The way you looked at me. Those eyes.” He bites down, just hard enough to make me yelp, then soothes it with his tongue. “You didn’t flinch. Everyone flinches. But not you.”

“Maybe I liked it.”

“You definitely liked it.” His hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. I’m not wearing a bra—I’ve been home all morning—and his eyes rake over me with an appreciation that borders on obscene. “Fuck, wildcat. You’re—” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “I had something smooth to say and I completely forgot it.”

“Good. I don’t want smooth.”

“You want rough?”

“Fuck yes.”

Holden laughs—a low, dangerous sound that vibrates against my bare skin—and his mouth is on me. His hands are everywhere. My waist, my ribs, one palm cupping my breast and rolling my nipple between his thumb and finger like he’s testing the limits of my pain tolerance. I moan, and he drags his mouth back to mine and bites my lower lip, sucking the spot from Sunday until it splits again.

I cry out as I taste blood. I want to match him. I want to hurt him back, so I dig my nails into his back and drag them down hard enough to leave red stripes. He shifts, hips grinding into me, and the heat between my legs is molten, insistent, so urgent it makes me desperate.

He has my leggings off before I even realize he’s doing it, kissing down my stomach as he slides them over my hips, mouth leaving a wet trail lower, lower, and—fuck. He drops to his knees. His teeth on my skin, fingers digging into my thighs.

His breath is hot against my core, teasing, but he doesn’t dive in right away. No, Holden drags it out—lips brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, teeth grazing and nipping just enough to sting, his hands pinning my legs open like he owns this moment, owns me. I arch my hips toward him, needy, shameless, and he chuckles low in his throat, the vibration skating over my nerves.