Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“We’re supposed to be training,” she reminds me, a tremor under the teasing.
“Technically,” I say, “I’m testing how you respond under pressure.”
She huffs out a breathy laugh. “You’re such a liar.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “You want me to stop?”
Her eyes search mine. There’s nervousness there.
And trust. And something bright and reckless that mirrors the wildness in my own chest. “No,” she says, barely audible.
That’s all it takes.
I lean in, closing the last sliver of distance, and kiss her.
It’s different from last night.
Less careful, more inevitable.
She makes a small, surprised sound and then leans into it like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Her free hand comes up to the front of my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. I feel the tug all the way through me.
I angle my head, deepening the kiss, our mouths fitting together in a practiced wrong we’ve somehow been rehearsing with every argument and glance for years.
She tastes like coffee and adrenaline.
My world narrows to the slide of her lips, the warmth of her body pinned between me and the wall, the way she rises onto her toes to get closer.
I drop the hand braced beside her head, sliding it to her waist, fingers splaying across her hip. I can feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her shirt.
She presses closer, closing what little space was left between us. Our bodies line up, chest to chest, hip to hip. The contact is a shock and a confirmation—yes, this is real, yes, she wants this too, yes, I’m not alone in this free fall.
I keep the kiss right on that razor’s edge—hungry but not frantic, hot but not out of control.
Her hand leaves my shirt, sliding up to my neck, fingers threading into the hair at the nape. She gives a small, unconscious tug that sends a bolt of heat straight down my spine.
I groan into her mouth.
She smiles against my lips.
Cocky.
Infuriating.
Perfect.
“Lark,” I murmur, breaking just enough to breathe. My forehead rests against hers. Our noses brush. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Occupational hazard,” she whispers. “You knew what you were signing up for when you let me in the car.”
I tug her closer by the waist. “That was blackmail,” I remind her.
“And you still said yes,” she says, eyes bright.
“Not my smartest move.”
“Pretty sure it was,” she counters.
She kisses me again before I can respond, quicker this time, playful. I chase it, catching her bottom lip between mine, coaxing another soft sound from her.
My hand slides up her side, feeling the curve of her ribs, the steady thud of her heartbeat under my palm. She’s thin but strong, all lean muscle and stubborn resolve.
“Say something awful,” she breathes between kisses.
I blink. “What?”
“Something terrible and romantic so my brain can’t handle it.”
I huff out a laugh that bumps our mouths.
“You’re impossible,” I say.
“Knight.”
I look at her.
There’s something vulnerable that makes my chest ache.
I could deflect.
I could joke.
I don’t.
Instead, I press my mouth to the corner of hers, then along her jaw, up to her temple, breathing her in. “You feel like… home,” I murmur, the words surprising even me with their bluntness. “Which is really inconvenient, considering we’re in a cabin the internet forgot about with a crime syndicate trying to murder us.”
Her breath catches. She pulls back just enough to see my face clearly. Her eyes shine, and a slow, stunned smile spreads across her mouth. “Knight Hayes,” she whispers, “that might be the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Your bar is low,” I say weakly.
“No, my standards are just calibrated for emotionally reluctant vigilantes,” she says. “And you, sir, are murdering it.”
“Murdering what?”
“My remaining emotional defenses.” She leans in to kiss me again, slow and lingering.
I sink into it, letting the outside world blur at the edges.
There’s still a bounty.
There are still people out there who’d see us both dead for sport.
Dean and Arrow and the others are still working angles we can’t see.
But in this little square of space—the two feet of wall behind her and the few inches of floor under my feet—none of that matters for a minute.
It’s just us.
Her mouth.
My hands.
The quiet, secret thrill of finally touching something I’ve wanted for longer than I’ll admit.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard again. Her lips are swollen, eyes dark.
“If this is what ‘training’ looks like now,” she says, voice slightly hoarse, “I’m putting it on the schedule daily.”
“Pretty sure that defeats the purpose,” I mutter.
“What, stress relief?”
“Focus,” I say. “We’re supposed to be increasing it, not destroying it.”
She grins. “You’re the one who pinned me to a wall, Hayes,” she points out. “I was being a perfectly innocent student.”
“You are never innocent,” I say.
“True.” She lifts her hand, fingers brushing my jaw, softer now. “But I am yours.”
The words hit with the force of a body blow.