Page 122 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Smartass.”

“You started it.”

“Pretty sure you asked if I kissed dirty.”

“And now I have data.”

His eyebrows lift. “Data?”

“Very educational.”

He drops his forehead against my shoulder and laughs, and I lie there underneath a dangerous biker who just had me riding his jeans, kneeling between my pink shoes, pulling his hair while his mouth was on my pussy, putting his cock in my mouth, and asking him to fuck me rougher.

Somehow none of that is the thing that scares me.

What scares me is his hand still tangled with mine, the way he laughs against my skin instead of getting dressed, and the way he listened every single time my body or my mouth told him something. Most of all, it is the fact that when I told him I trusted him, he looked more terrified than he did when Razor threatened me.

Some stupid piece of my heart decides this is exactly when it wants to get involved.

That seems unfair.

A few minutes later, Bitter shifts carefully away, dealing with the condom before coming back to me almost immediately. He doesn’t roll away, doesn’t make a joke first, and doesn’t turn cold now that he has what he wanted.

He stays.

That is the part I was not ready for.

His arm settles around my waist. His hand moves slowly along my back because I am shaking and he notices.

“You with me?”

I press my face into his chest. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

His lips touch my temple, barely, almost not enough to count.

It counts.

My heart grabs onto it before I can stop it.

We lie there while the room cools and the festival carries on outside without us. Somewhere beyond the garage, people laugh. A motorcycle starts. Music rises and dips.

Life keeps happening in all its loud, strange Tennessee glory, and I am in Bitter Adams’s bed with his hand on my back and his breath in my hair.

I should be careful. I should ask what this means. I should remember every warning he gave me.

Instead, I let myself have the quiet.

Later, he gets up only long enough to bring water and a warm washcloth. He does not make a show of it or turn it into a joke. He simply takes care of me with the same fierce concentration he used on my car lock and Mama’s frame.

I watch him through heavy eyes.

“You’re doing it again.”

He glances over. “Doing what?”