Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(41)

“God, Kate,” he whispers.

A current surges between us, white-hot, crackling, as his mouth lowers toward mine. The world careens off its axis, tipping me toward him, up on my toes.

My mouth brushes his, and a shock jolts us both. But neither of us pulls away.

Christopher lets out a low, aching sound of satisfaction as he cups my face, guiding our kiss. At first it’s soft, a whisper of warmth and promise, then it’s hungry, velvet-hot, slow, searching tastes, his mouth learning mine.

Deep inside me, a spark ignites to a flame, flooding my body with heat. It makes me lean in, desperate for more. Christopher senses this somehow, or maybe he wants it as badly as I do, because as I throw my arm around his neck, his grip spans my waist, then tightens, dragging me against him.

One hand splays up my back, arching me into him, until it settles at the nape of my neck and rubs gently. Our mouths fall open on twin moans, and his tongue softly strokes mine, coaxing. I gasp and lean in, consumed with helpless, restless need.

Christopher’s hand slides higher up my neck, scraping into my hair. He tips my head for a better angle and groans roughly as our kiss deepens, wet and warm, slow, steady strokes of his tongue.

I’m panting, aching, because this kiss is an ember and my body is a blaze, burning awake, begging for longer kisses and stronger touch to ground this frantic energy bringing me to life. I need him. I need this. I need more.

But when I try to pull us closer together, my shoulder twinges sharply. A quiet cry of pain jumps out of me.

Christopher tears himself back, breathing hard, his gaze searching me frantically. “I hurt you.”

“No. No, I’m fine,” I tell him, my hand sliding up his chest. “It’s not you. My shoulder is just a little sore.”

He ducks his head as if he’s gathering himself. He breathes out a slow, concerted breath. “I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”

Those words echo in the air and sour it. My pride stings like a slapped cheek.

Christopher shakes his head, staring down at the ground, scrubbing his forehead. “I’m sorry, Kate. I just—”

“Wanted to talk?” I ask, stepping back and wiping my lips with the back of my hand, trying to erase the memory of him from my mouth. I hate how weak I just was, wanting that. Even more, I hate that he’s humiliated me again.

I can’t believe we just kissed.

Christopher and I kissed.

Where’s the sign of the end times? The meteors raining down from the sky? The pestilence and rivers of blood and the Four Horsemen?

Christopher swears under his breath. His eyes meet mine, dark with regret. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Of course not,” I say tightly. “You could kiss anyone, why kiss me?”

“Now you’re twisting my words,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

“You’re right. How unfair of me! Our history dictates that, without hesitation, I should give you the benefit of the doubt!”

He yanks at his hair. “I’m sorry, all right?”

“Yes, you’ve made that very clear! How sorry you are! How much you regret kissing me!”

His eyes narrow and he erases the small amount of space I put between us. “What are you angry about, Kate? The kiss, or what I said about it?”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “I don’t even know who the hell you are. You send me flowers, you send me food, you’re waiting outside my work, insisting on walking me home, then you’re hauling me against you like this is some—some fucking romance book of Juliet’s, and none of it makes sense!”

“I’m trying to talk to you so it will make sense, but you won’t let me!”

“Because it doesn’t make sense! Because you don’t treat someone the way you’ve treated me my whole life, then magically want to ‘talk about it.’?”

“And those twenty-seven years are all on me? You provoked me, taunted me, hounded me—”

“I was a fucking kid, Christopher! I was a child who just wanted to be a part of what you and my sisters, and hell, even my parents, had. I just wanted to belong!”

“You’ve made very interesting choices for being someone who wants to belong,” he says, breathing harshly, “considering you left and never looked back.”

“Because I wanted to live! I wanted to see the world. And I have some fucking pride. Because I wasn’t going to hold myself back, only to want things from others that weren’t wanted of me, too.”

“You aggravating, maddening, clueless woman—”

“Please, insult me more.”

He clasps my jaw, his thumb sliding across my lip, reminding me of our kiss, and God, I’m weak, because I want it again. I want teeth and tongue and his body moving with mine, hard, urgent, chasing something this has awakened inside me, something I despise him for.

His forehead hits mine, his mouth a breath away from meeting my own. He says, his voice dark and quiet as midnight, “As if anyone could not want you.”

Then he drops his hand, draws open my building’s foyer door, and hauls me inside, before slamming the door closed between us.

I’m rooted to the floor as Christopher spins in a fury and storms out into the night.

While I stand, stock-still.