Page 186 of Wicked Brutal

I pull his hair. He groans into the kiss and presses me harder into the wall, careful of my stomach even now — there’s a sliver of space he won’t close, a line he won’t smash through — but everything else is him. Heat. Breath. The faint shake in the hand that’s in my hair.

“You don’t get to fix this with your mouth,” I warn.

“Not trying to fix it.” Another kiss, messy, almost angry. “Trying to feel you. That’s it.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“No.” His forehead knocks mine. “It’s the only thing I’ve wanted all fucking day that I was allowed to have.”

I kiss him so I don’t have to answer that.

His hand slides from my hair down the side of my neck, my shoulder — skips the bruises without looking like he’s skipping them — and lands at my waist. He holds me there against the wall like he’s making sure I won’t disappear if he blinks. We’re both breathing like we ran here. Neither of us moves to take clothes off yet. We’re just here. Kissing. Fighting. Wanting. Pinned to the guest house wall with Tobias’s voice still faintly carrying from the main house, and for one dangerous second I don’t care about any of it except the boy who just admitted he panicked.

“You used Switzerland,” I say against his mouth.

“I did.”

“You used my writing.”

“I did.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes hot. “And you keep walking into the blades for everyone else like your body is the only acceptable cost.”

I freeze for half a second. Then I kiss him harder so I don’t have to hear it.

He lets me. Then he fists my hair and tips my head back. “No. You wanted me to talk. I’m talking.” His mouth finds my throat. Not gentle. Not hurting. Claiming. “You will throw yourself in front of Roman. In front of Tremblay. In front of a fucking plane. You will let him hit you if it keeps Tobias looking the other way.”

“He’s six—“

“And you’re carrying our baby.” He says it against my skin, furious and scared and in love. “You don’t get to spend yourself like you’re extra. I won’t let you.”

I yank at his belt. “You’re not my father.”

“No.” He helps me, shoving his jeans down just enough, then mine, both of us clumsy and impatient. “I’m the person who has to live with it if you disappear.”

I climb into his lap, my knees hitting the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands come up — one at my waist, one in my hair — and I yank his shirt up.

“I hated today,” I say against his mouth.

“I know.”

“I hated you.”

He kisses me harder, dragging my shirt up. “I hated me too.”

My shirt hits the floor. His follows. Skin. Heat. The ultrasound still sitting in his pocket like a secret with a heartbeat. I scrape my nails down his chest and he groans into my mouth, hands careful at my back, never crowding my stomach even when the rest of him is anything but careful.

“Fuck.” I kiss him again, messy, angry. “I love you though. I hate that I love you.”

“Don’t.” His voice is rough. “Don’t hate that part.” Clothes end up on the floor in a wreck. I sink down against him, still in his lap, still kissing him like I’m winning an argument. His hands grip my hips — tight, shaking.

“I hated watching you sit there,” he says into my mouth. “I hated every laugh. I hated that it worked. I hated that Bennett believed it. I hated that you believed I could mean it even for a second.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.” His forehead hits mine. “For three seconds you hated me. You said so.”

“I did.” My voice breaks. “And I still wanted you to come back.”

“I’m here.” He kisses me, hard, almost desperate. “I’m right here. Be mad. Stay mad. Just don’t you ever decide you’re the piece we can afford to lose.”