“Fionn, I never would’ve hurt you.” She blinked up at him, a suspicious sheen in her eyes. Everything about her was suspicious. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone, but especially not you.”
He snorted. “Why? Because you’re kind and sweet and naive? None of us are buying that shit anymore.”
Lyse squeezed her eyes shut. He could see the fight going on inside her, the need to defend herself. She could try all she wanted; it wouldn’t be doing her any good.
Opening her eyes, she focused on his jumper, not meeting his gaze. “You know why. I couldn’t hurt you, Fionn. I…”
Something mean sparked in his gut. “Why? Because of your little crush?”
Her pale cheeks went pink, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“You didn’t think your case of puppy love meant anything, did ya? Those big eyes staring up at me, full of hearts.” He leaned in, planting his hands on the seat on either side of her thighs, bringing their faces close. He wanted her to see him, wanted her feeling it when he delivered the blows. “All that pathetic hero worship almost got my team killed. Why? Because we trusted you. Because no little girl who was naive enough to believe she’d have a chance with me could be a threat, yeah?”
She refused to meet his eyes, denying him what he wanted. Fisting her chin, he forced her to look at him.
“You sold it all right; I have to be giving you that, Bat Girl.” He enjoyed the little flinch her nickname caused. “Let me clear this up: you never had a chance. You’re not woman enough to be handling a man like me. And I sure as feck don’t have sex with traitors.”
She stared into his eyes, and he watched as hers went dull, as the sheen of life drained away. It should’ve satisfied the arsehole inside him, the part who hated her, who wanted nothing more than to be taking his pound of flesh and going back for more. Instead that look struck him deep, twisting inside him like a knife going for his heart. He watched her lips part, watched her draw in a ragged breath, and knew that he’d succeeded in delivering a fatal wound. But the pleasure he’d expected to feel wasn’t there.
Lyse’s breath hitched over and over as if she couldn’t quite get enough air. She leaned closer, close enough that the scent of her breath—apples and bite, the hard cider she’d been drinking earlier—washed through him. He expected her teeth, but that’s not what she offered.
She tilted her face and pressed her lips to his.
Shock hit him like a live wire. His first instinct was to shove her away, slam her back into her chair. He dropped his hand to her chest, right over her pounding heart. She was a traitor; she was usin’ him to get what she wanted, to get—
Her lips against his. They were softer than he’d imagined, and right then he couldn’t deny that he’d imagined a lot. Skin to skin brought every unforgivable dream that had entered his brain to the fore. He’d fantasized about this, even when his lips had been on another woman. When his guard had been down and his flesh had been on fire and he’d been needin’ so much he couldn’t stop his mind from going there. That shyness, the tentative way her mouth pressed against his but didn’t part, didn’t do more than breathe—it was exactly what he’d imagined she would be like.
Exactly how she’d be acting if she was wanting his guard down. What brought out the protector more than an inexperienced wan?
He angled his head farther, used his lips to open her to his tongue. She was hot inside, tart. He pushed deep. The act she was putting on aroused him; he wanted to take and take and take, soaking up all that innocence for himself. Which was why he needed to break her. He needed to make it rough, to strip away the lovesick disguise and prove to himself that she wasn’t the person he’d thought she was for so long.
His mouth took hers, his tongue tangling, sparring, spearing between Lyse’s lips. Her head fell back on her shoulders like a fragile flower, but her kiss wasn’t fragile—she forced her mouth against his with equal need, let him in fully, dueled with his tongue. They found a rhythm that shot his pulse into high gear. Her moan vibrated through his body and settled in his core, callin’ the blood in his veins straight to his cock. The pressure of the chair against his erection only made it worse.
He ached. Needed.
Lost in her heat, he couldn’t remember moving his hand, not till the weight of her breast in his palm registered. A full, firm mound with a tight, jutting tip. He wrapped his fingers around the cloth-covered flesh, wishing it was her skin, wishing that hard nipple was in his mouth. He sucked her tongue instead, enjoying the jump that ran through her when he pinched her between his fingers. She liked it; he knew she did by the sudden arching of her back, and he did it again, his other hand settling low on her spine and pulling her forward. He was needing the cushion of her stomach, the pressure of her body against his aching length. Holy hell, he was needing like he’d never needed before.
He trailed biting kisses from her swollen lips to her jaw to the tender skin of her neck. Her pale skin would hold marks tomorrow; he wanted it to. He wanted to bruise her, make her remember that she’d been his. His teeth skimmed the line of muscle beneath her ear, clamped down near her collarbone, and he sucked until his name escaped her lips. His name on Lyse’s lips. He needed to hear his name.
“Fionn…”
Lyse. He had his mouth on Lyse.
Awareness jolted him, and he bit down harder than he meant to.
“Fionn!”
What the feck was he doin’? Tearing himself away, he used
