Page 78 of Filthy Rich Daddies

I take another step. “You like that we were watching. That we were protecting you. That someone cared enough to be there without asking for anything in return.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

I lean in, dropping my voice to a growl. “You like it when we take care of things. When we make the impossible happen. When we use all the ridiculous power we have to make your life easier, better.”

She stops breathing.

I keep going, prowling near. “You like that we can do these things for you. That we can take control of the chaos. That we can make your body melt.”

Her breath hitches.

I’m close now. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Close enough to count the freckles across her nose. “You like it, Thalassa. Even if you want to hate it. Even if it scares the shit out of you.”

She doesn’t back away. She doesn’t stop me. And God, she’s beautiful when she’s furious.

I don’t kiss her first.

She grabs the front of my hoodie and pulls me in, like she’s been fighting herself the whole time and just lost the battle. And I let her.

I let her crash into me like she needs to feel something real, like the anger and confusion swirling inside her need somewhere to land—and I’ve got open arms and too much longing to do anything but catch her.

The kiss is heat and teeth, fast and a little clumsy, like we’re trying to outrun everything we haven’t said. Her fingers twist in the fabric of my hoodie, and my hands slide down to her hips, holding her steady as she presses up on her toes.

She tastes like peppermint and adrenaline. Like the last seventy-two hours have compressed into a kiss that saysyou scared me, I missed you, don’t you dare do that again.

Her lips move to my jaw, then my neck, and I let my head fall back with a groan.

She pulls away just enough to speak. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“Also true.”

“You crossed a line.”

“Probably several. Laws too.”

She kisses me again, harder this time.

I take a step forward, guiding us backward toward the old couch in the corner. She lets me, dropping onto the cushions like she owns the space, like she’s claimed it just by being here.

And maybe she has.

She tugs her hoodie off, and I follow suit. My shirt goes next. The air between us gets hotter by the second, but there’s more here than just heat. There’s something vulnerable in the way her hands slow when they skim over my chest, like she’s looking at me—not just touching.

“You okay?” I murmur.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But I want this.”

That’s enough for me.

I lean down and kiss her, slower now. We take our time—relearning, reconnecting. This isn’t like the first time, when it was all novelty and hunger and experimentation. This time, there’s weight behind it. Familiarity. Intimacy.

Emotion. And I’m not afraid of that anymore. I want it.

I want her. Every inch of her, every sharp word and soft sigh, every contradiction she embodies.