First Debt (Indebted #2)(64)

I couldn’t move.

Jethro didn’t shift back, he stood there, his hips flush against mine. Suddenly, his hands came up, grabbing my waist, holding me in place.

We didn’t speak, only breathed. The truth crackled around us. We knew how dangerous this fight was, how frayed our self-control had become.

We’d been dancing this tango for weeks, and the electricity between us was a lightning storm threatening to incinerate everything in its path.

“Stop. Stop playing me. What did you hope to achieve? That I’d kiss you? Fuck you? Come to care for you? That I’d fall in love with you.” Jethro dropped his voice to a whisper. “That I wouldn’t kill you?” He shook his head. “You’re still as clueless and na?ve as the day I stole you.”

You don’t believe that.

“Prove it.”

His nostrils flared. “I will not.”

Cocking my chin, I anchored myself in as much courage as possible. “Prove it, Jethro. Prove how cold you are by giving me something I desperately need.”

I need to see there is hope. Just a small shred of hope.

“What makes you think I can be manipulated? I don’t care about your needs or desires.”

“Liar,” I whispered. “You do care. Otherwise, you wouldn't still be here. You wouldn’t be fighting this.” I rested my hands on his chest, digging my fingernails into his t-shirt. “You would’ve struck me and left if you were anything like you portray.”

I stood on my tiptoes, reaching for his mouth. “I told you, you’re a hypocrite.”

He paused, calculation dark in his eyes. “One kiss?”

I nodded. “One kiss.”

Jethro's control broke. “Just one f*cking kiss? Don’t you know what you’re asking from me? I don’t want to f*cking kiss you!”

My heart broke. Was I so repulsive he didn’t want his lips anywhere on mine?

I withered in his gaze, falling back to my position of Weaver Whore. But then, I stopped. This was the only time I might get him this undone, this close to snapping. It might be my only hope.

Glaring, I snarled, “Kiss me. Give me one fracture of human company, and I’ll never say another word to you again. I’ll be whatever you want. Just kiss me!”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re an idiot.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“I don’t want to kiss you!”

I lashed out. My arms came up. I opened my palm. And I slapped the self-righteous, egotistical arsehole on the cheek.

The moment went from lust-heavy to stagnant with violence. We stared, caught dead centre in war.

“You’re a f*cking nightmare,” he snapped.

“Kiss me.”

“You’re ruining my life.”

“Kiss me.”

“You’re—”

“Kiss me, Jethro. Kiss me. Just f*cking kiss me and give me—”

His body crashed against mine. His hands flew up, grabbing my cheeks and holding me firm. His lips, oh his lips, they bruised mine as his head tilted, and with pure anger, he gave me what I’d wanted for weeks.

He kissed me.

My lungs were empty—he’d stolen all my air, but I no longer survived on oxygen. I survived on his mouth, his taste, his unbridled energy pouring down my throat.

His tongue tore past my lips, taking me savage and hungry. There was nothing sweet or gentle. This was a punishment. A reminder that I hadn’t won. He wasn’t kissing me. He was fighting me in every underhanded way.

His hands dropped from my cheeks, cupping my breasts. The violence in his touch throbbed instantly. I arched my back, opening my mouth wider to scream, but he swallowed my cries, kissing me deeper, harder, stealing every inch of sanity I had left.

I thought a kiss would put me on even ground—show him that he did care. That he was human—just like me. I hadn’t gambled on being detonated into a billion tiny pieces that had no notion of who I’d been before he’d stolen my soul.

He backed me up, faster and faster to the bed. His breath saturated my lungs. His touch skated from my cheeks, to my breasts, to my waist, to my arse. Jerking me hard against the huge length of arousal in his jeans.

The bed stopped our motion, tumbling us onto the sheets, but nothing, absolutely nothing could unweld our lips.

We were joined, kissing, frantic, desperate.

He groaned as I slid my hands beneath his t-shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine.

He was blood and fire and heat.

So different to the glacier he pretended to be.

“Fuck,” he grunted as my fingers drifted to his buckle. I thanked my past of making countless pairs of trousers as I ripped through the barrier and dived into his boxer-briefs with eager fingers.

His teeth clamped around my bottom lip as I stroked him. The faint taste of metallic smeared between us as our kiss turned into pure violence.

My vision went black, seeing only white sparks and sensation.

Jethro’s hands suddenly went to my waist, rolling off me to shove up my dress and tear my knickers from my hips. He shoved them desperately down my legs.

The world spun faster and faster as we discarded every item in our way and left the rest. Our lips never unglued; our heads twisted and turned as our tongues slipped and glided.