Page 46 of Craving Sin

The one that keeps trying to break through, the one that I don’t want to face, is there, an echo getting louder and louder… I’ll miss you.

How can I miss a man I don’t know? Not really. And why do I care about him, when I haven’t cared about someone new in so very long? Not like this. Not for me. I care about Ollie because my son loves him. I care about Dean because my nephew loves him. Zuri, because of my niece, and Shai because of Rory. I care about my family, but that’s it. No one has been able to break through the fortified exterior that formed around me when Moira died.

Why does he?

“I’m sorry. This isn’t like me—feeling sorry for myself this way. I don’t know what—”

“Shut up,” I say, then look down at my hands that are shaking. Why in the fuck are my hands shaking?

They’re shaking because I have to kill him.

I don’t want to kill him.

I’ll miss him.

I…want him, something else I haven’t done in so fucking long, I thought I’d forgotten how. Fucking isn’t the same as wanting, and it is want sprinting through my veins right now, that’s making my heart race and every fucking thing I’ve known about myself, thought about myself, splinter like wood.

“I—”

“Shut up,” I say again, shoving to my feet, unable to stop myself, not wanting to stop myself. “I’ll miss you.” The words are so soft, I’m unsure if I even spoke them out loud.

Before my brain catches up with the rest of me, I grab Abbott’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Tell me not to kiss you,” rushes past my lips.

“I…what?”

“Fucking tell me,” I grit out again. He needs to tell me. If he does, I won’t. I’ll walk away. I won’t do this unless he wants it too.

Abbott’s pupils blow wide before coming down to some conclusion I don’t know, not until he opens his mouth and says, “No.” I immediately deflate before he adds, “I’m not telling you no.”

Before either of us can acknowledge how bad of an idea this is, how fucked up the whole damn situation is, my mouth crashes down on his.

Abbott’s lips are firm at first, then just a second later, they soften, move against mine, and open when my tongue lashes against them, begging for entry.

I nearly sag in relief that he’s giving it to me, that this man who should hate me, and in some ways does hate me, is giving me this, wants to give me this. He’s letting me taste him, moving his tongue against mine, slipping into my mouth too, in this sort of give and take—a dance we’re having together.

Kissing him feels different than anyone else I’ve had my mouth on before—the rasp of his stubble against my face, the masculine scent of him, the way his strong hands hold my waist, squeezing tightly.

I haven’t enjoyed a kiss since…I don’t want to think about that—not here, not now. Not with him. For this moment, I just want to feel and enjoy anything and everything Abbott will give me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Abbott

What the hell am I doing? This is wrong on every level imaginable. It has to be some kind of Stockholm thing. I’m too smart not to know that, but right now, it doesn’t matter. All I want is to feel good, to be wanted, to have the touch of another person grounding me, making me forget this fucked-up moment I’ve found myself in—the one where I’ve realized that I may have saved countless lives, but I’ve made no meaningful connection in my own.

That even though I’m a son, I’m not loved as one. I’m a doctor, but I’m not a friend or a lover.

With Rian, though, at least right now, I am one—or both—friend and lover. Person to talk to, because he does talk to me, shares things with me that he shouldn’t, and he said those three words that I shouldn’t want, that I shouldn’t believe, but I do on both accounts.

I’ll miss you.

I kiss him deeper, fingertips digging into his hips, trying to find purchase in him, like if I let him go, I’m going to drift away.

He growls into my mouth, feeds me his tongue, sweeps it through my mouth like he needs to taste every inch of me.

And I want him to. Christ, it’s fucked up and wrong, but I want him to.

Not breaking our kiss, Rian pulls me over, then pushes me against the porch railing. I go easily, not caring what he does with me as long as he doesn’t stop kissing me.