Page 77 of These White Lies

What if it’s only because he is the one thing standing between me and the people after me? Trauma bonded.

But that’s just it. He’s notjuststanding vigil, he’s actively trying to solve the problem for me. I was a bitch to him when this first started. I know that. Even then, other than forcing me to admit we knew each other, he’s never thrown any of the things I confided in him that night back at me.

It doesn’t matter. I heave a loud internal sigh. Because no matter how much I deny it to myself, smart or not, I care about him. A lot.

I trace his shoulder with my gaze, following the lines of his muscles to where it leads into his collarbone, and then lower to the slow rise and fall of his sculpted chest. He’s shirtless. When did that happen? He was definitely wearing one when I fell asleep. I would have remembered this view. My fingers twitch against him.

It would be so easy to kiss him.

I want to kiss him. Badly…

Don’t be stupid, my brain hisses. This isn’t the time to blur lines or test his boundaries. Not when we are literally hiding from the bad guys.

His lashes lift without warning, and green eyes stare back at me.

“Comfortable?” His voice is rough from sleep, and god help me, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. His large hand skates up my leg that is—yes, still thrown across him—up to where I’m basically caressing his chest and settles it over mine.

“Very,” I whisper before the thought is fully formed.

His gaze darkens as it drifts down, pausing at my lips. His jaw flexes.

“This is a bad idea, Firefly,” he says, voice strained.

“I know.” I arch into him, my body contradicting my words. My thigh shifts lower and presses against the thick, long length of him.

His eyes flare, the green deepening to black in the shadows. “We shouldn’t,” he murmurs, but doesn’t move away.

The air thickens between us, heavy with everything we aren’t saying. What I’m not ready to give voice to. I wait, holding my breath, every nerve ending in my body sparking to life.

Finally, he moves, his hand sliding up my spine slowly until his fingers splay over the back of my neck. The contact sends heat racing through my veins.

I’m officially a puddle.

His gaze locks on mine, and the conflicting emotions I see there takes my breath away.

“Are you sure?” His voice is quiet, but I can hear the weight in his words. His own hesitation. Right now, I don’t care about rules or protocols. I want this man. All of him. And deep down I know what crossing this line means. For both of us.

I lean in until his breath ghosts over my lips. “Yes.” The word glides from my lips to his.

The kiss starts soft, almost tentative. His lips caress mine, like he’s giving me a chance to change my mind… Or maybe he’s trying to decide if he should change his. I press closer, tiltingmy head to deepen the kiss. His palm cups the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair as his mouth fully claims mine. Hot sparks of pleasure ignite under my skin when his tongue slides against mine, coaxing a needy moan.

The air around us electrifies, and everything else disappears.

There is only the dizzying slide of his mouth over mine, the scrape of his stubble against my skin, and the molten ache that pools low in my stomach. All that exists are the hard muscles under my hands and the growing need inside me.

I press my breasts harder into his side, my knee moving deliberately over him. Jerking beneath me, he groans a deep and low sound that vibrates against my skin, dark and hungry.

The hand on my back roams to the curve of my waist, and rolls me toward him, bringing us face to face.

My fingers curl into the hot skin of his abdomen and then slide lower, scraping my nails over ridges of muscle and twitching skin. I palm him through the fabric of his pants, wrapping my fingers around his length.

His hips buck upward. “Fuck.” The word is a ragged vibration against my mouth, and I grip more firmly, my hand moving in slow strokes.

His hips flex into my hand again, breath shuddering. “Elizabeth…”

My heart hammers, blood pounding in my ears. “Touch me,” I beg, gripping his wrist and guiding his hand to my breast under the robe.

His thumb brushes my nipple, teasing it to a tight peak, before catching it between his fingers and pinching. My hips shift restlessly as his fingers drop between us. Brady yanks the tie free, causing the fabric to gape open. Pushing the robe from my shoulders, he suddenly freezes.