Page 57 of Wayward

I nodded.

“Thought I would what, hate you?”

Second nod.

“And you don’t want that because you like me already.”

“Yes,” I barely got out.

“I like you too,” he said, and kissed me.

It was brief, just his lips on mine for a moment, a kiss of comfort, soothing, and I thought, this was friendship he was offering, but then he tipped my head and kissed the side of my neck. It wasn’t gentle, and the hand that had moved to my hair was holding me almost painfully tight.

And then he kissed me again.

Nothing friendly about that.

His tongue pressed for entrance, and I parted my lips, opening for him, and he was there, mauling my mouth, taking what he wanted, feasting on me.

I clutched his hips, my hands exerting the power to keep him close, and then he knocked me back into the porch railing, his knee parting my thighs, letting me feel what he wanted. He wanted inside. He wanted me to let him in, to submit, and though I never had before, I felt the desire like a pinball bouncing all over my chest, lighting up everything it touched that had been dark and dead for years.

He had to tear himself away to breathe, and when he stepped back, he was staring at me with wild eyes.

“You all right?” I asked, running my tongue over my lips, tasting him.

His exhale was sharp.

“Gale?”

He swallowed hard. “Let’s go inside and eat so we can look at the house from hell after, and then…then I want to talk to you some more.”

“Just talk?” I prodded him.

“No,” he confessed. “Not just talk.”

I couldn’t seem to stop staring at him. “I’d like to hear more about your partner if that would be okay?”

“It would.”

“And you’re fine not knowing everything about me?”

“I think I know what I need to already.”

“I appreciate that, Gale, I really do, but you’re not seeing the whole picture.”

“No,” he scoffed. “You’re not seeing it, Maks. And you need to.”

I opened my mouth to say something more, but he rendered me mute when he took my hand and tugged gently. “Come and eat.”

I allowed myself to be led because I didn’t want to break the connection.

Inside, Ada was folding drop cloths.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I told her.

“Oh no, it’s fine. I got Misha settled, showed him where his food dishes are—I used some I made, none of that plastic or stainless-steel business for our boy—and he had some dinner.”

He was, at the moment, curled up in a small dog bed that had been placed in front of a gorgeous fireplace that would probably heat the whole room in fall and winter.