Page 74 of Bend

Then he says, low and rough, “I’m not fucking around, Thorne.”

And that does it.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s him. The honesty of it. The fact he’s standing there, not joking, not dodging, not making me drag every bloody thing out of him one painful inch at a time.

I don’t even realise I’ve gone still until Wolfe’s gaze drops to my mouth and back up again, like he’s giving me one last chance to bolt.

I don’t.

His thumb shifts once against my wrist. Barely anything and yet its enough to make my pulse kick fucking harder.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

I should. Bloody hell I should.

I should say something smart. Deflect with the usual comical shit or tell him he’s being a smug bastard and to get out of my fuckin’ bay.

Instead I just stand there looking at him, breathing too hard, and saying absolutely fuck all.

Which is answer enough, apparently, because Wolfe steps in first.

Slow enough that I could still pull away. Careful enough that it feels worse than if he’d just taken it from me. His hand leaves my wrist and comes up to the side of my neck, fingers settling there warm and steady, and then his mouth is on mine.

Soft at first, and for half a second it’s not a fight, not a challenge or all the sharp-edged tension we’ve been throwing at each other for a week. It’s just him kissing me like he means it.

Like he’s been waiting for this moment since that night in the Motel.

That softness lasts about two seconds before something in me gives way and before I know what I’m doing, I’m kissing him back.

Harder and angrier.

Like I’ve got a point to prove, though I couldn’t tell you what the fucking point is. His other hand slides to my waist and mine fist in his shirt, dragging him closer as the kiss turns heated fast, all the words we haven’t said properly catching fire between us.

And Christ, he feels too good.

Too easy.

Too fucking real.

Wolfe responds with a low, needy groan that vibrates against my mouth, his free hand cradling the curve of my neck, thumb tracing the pulse beating wildly there. Our lips part, tongues sliding together in a slick, heated dance, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint sweetness of his breath. It's all warmth and tempting, every stroke igniting sparks that spread through my goddamn veins.

The kiss deepens, our bodies drawing flush, as his chest rises to meet mine, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against my thigh through our clothes.

My hands roam up his back, nails grazing the muscles beneath his shirt, while his hand cups my jaw, tilting my head to claim my mouth more fully.

Our tongues tangle, wet and hungry, as I suck gently on his lower lip, drawing out another soft moan that sends a jolt right to my cock. Visons of the other night replay in my head.

How good he felt when I sank into him. The sight of him on his back, taking me like he’d waited so long for it.

Fuck.

We melt into each other, the world narrowing to the slide of his tongue exploring mine, the way his hips shift subtly, grinding his cock against mine just enough to tease.

Suddenly his grip on my wrist loosens, and he pulls me closer. Skin flushes hot where we touch, breaths coming in shared gasps between kisses that leave us both trembling with want, and then I realize.

This time, there's no Echo in the middle.

No excuses and no fucking buffer.