7. Dean
Seven
Dean
T he second Annie’s mouth brushes mine, my last shred of self-control tears itself to ribbons. Heat surges in my veins, my heart booms in my chest, and every cell in my body throbs with the urgent need to kiss her, keep her, claim her. Tilting my head to the side, I slide my tongue past her lips.
There’s no more pretending that I’m Wyatt.
No more playing along.
Because I want Annie Lowell to know exactly who’s kissing her back, claiming her mouth with hungry intensity. More than that, I want her to admit it. To say my name again, this time with her nails digging into my back.
We break apart, breathing hard, then dive right back in. Annie’s hands roam up into my hair, while I’m gripping her peachy little ass. She’s sweet as candy, rocking against my thigh and moaning into my lips.
Fucking perfect.
The music is loud enough to rattle my teeth in their gums, and it’s dark and anonymous in this club. The dance floor is packed with bodies, and yet we’re in our own private world, just another couple twisted around each other in the shadows.
It’s hot. It’s sweaty. The air tastes like haze and spilled alcohol.
And I never want this moment to end.
Annie scratches her fingernails against my scalp, sending a flurry of sparks traveling down my spine. She strokes her tongue against my own, and my cock is harder than titanium right now, pressing against my zipper.
Yes.
I’ve wanted her for so long. Craved her for years, ever since we were teenagers growing up in the same stifling suburb. Knowing that Annie was right next door all that time, hearing her and Wyatt hanging out together in the den on their movie nights, catching glimpses of her sunbathing out on the grass… it was torture.
Wasn’t good enough for her then.
I deserve her even less now.
But maybe I’m done with fighting fate. Done with denying the pull I feel to this woman, stronger than any magnet.
Annie Lowell is mine.
And I’m hers. She can do whatever she wants with me.
Annie must sense that too, must intuit the fact that she owns me, because her hands start roaming all over my body. Mapping her territory.
As we kiss long and hard, barely coming up for air, she strokes over my chest and shoulders. Her hot little palms trace down to my biceps and squeeze the muscles there, like she’s testing their strength. I fight the mad urge to flex.
Annie strokes past my elbows and forearms, all the way down to my wrists, the nerve endings sparking beneath my bare skin. Then she plants her hands on my hips, rubbing her thumbs against the solid jut of bone before stroking up to my stomach and tracing my abs through the cotton of my t-shirt.
A shudder wracks my frame.
On and on she touches me, so possessive that it makes me light-headed. Like she’s waited years for this too, and she’s not wasting another single second.
When Annie’s fingers hook in the waistband of my jeans, I groan into her mouth. Not here , I want to say—not because I want her to stop, but because I don’t trust my own self control. Not since she started humping my thigh in time with the beat. She’s still doing it, too, rolling her hips in a slow, maddening tease, while we cling together, half dancing, half wrecked.
Annie’s lips curve against mine. Something tickles my left ear, and I snarl and swat the pink feather boa away, letting it drop onto the ground to get trampled beneath the other club goers’ feet.
Nuisance dealt with, I grab Annie’s ass again with both hands. This is their new default position. Her perfect, peachy ass is my new favorite stress ball.
My heart drums as I squeeze, pressing her close.
“This is nuts,” Annie says, breaking away from our kiss to shout into my ear. With the music so loud, I still have to strain to hear her. “This is crazy, right?”
Maybe.
Okay, yeah. This is nuts. We’re here together because Annie put a bag over my head and kidnapped me from a bar, and because I pretended to be my estranged twin brother and went along with it. This whole night has been insane.
But the craziest thing to me is how fucking right this all feels—how incendiary Annie Lowell is in my arms. She’s burning me to a crisp, turning my insides molten, and I don’t even care. I’ll burn to ash before I ever let go.
“I don’t care,” I shout back over the music. “Crazy can be good.”
As we yell at each other over the din, Annie’s fingertips slide around the inside of my waistband, tickling my bare skin. My abs clench, and I let out a hiss of pleasure—but then Annie reaches my lower back and goes still in my arms.
A frown creases her forehead.
“Is that—?”
She’s not yelling anymore, but I can read her lips. Just like I can feel her hands back there, frozen in horror at what they’ve found: the hilt of my second knife.
It’s a daily thing for me to wear, same as the one in my boot. They’re for protection, nothing more. Strapping those knives to my body is as common and boring as lacing up my boots and shrugging on a shirt, and I’d feel naked without their reassuring pressure—but as Annie’s breaths go shallow and she steps robotically out of my arms, it’s clear that my knife doesn’t reassure her.
“Annie—” I start to say, reaching for her again.
She backs up so fast, she presses against the painted wall. My gut plummets at the sudden distance between us; at the fear in her green eyes.
“Who are you, Dean Kinnear?” she says, her words nearly swallowed up by the music. Despite the hot basement room, she’s pale.
My throat goes tight, and I don’t know how to respond. If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t have made the choices I did. I’d never have gone down the wrong path at all.
“Annie,” I try again. Palms raised, moving slowly, I step into her space again—then duck my head and speak directly into her ear. A shiver coasts through her body and makes my head swim. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.” The delicate shell of her ear brushes against my lips as I speak, and fuck, I want to rewind the last thirty seconds. Want to go back.
I had her.
Everything I ever wanted—it was in my arms. She was sweet, eager, mine.
Now Annie Lowell’s gone rigid as I stand too close, her hands balled into fists by her sides. She jerks her head from left to right, blonde hair slipping over her shoulders. Refusing.
She won’t go somewhere with me. Won’t let me explain. But even if Annie did agree to talk—what would I say? How could I explain to her that yes, I’m a killer, but I have rules?
I’m not some psycho. I’ve been doing the dirty work to make the world a better place. And the world has fewer monsters because of me, but none of it is worth jack shit if it loses me Annie.
“Sweetheart.” It’s too fucking hot in this club, too humid with everyone’s body heat, and yet my skin is icy cold. “Let me explain.”
Another shake of her head.
My chest cracks open. The split is agonizing, and the pain echoes all the way down to my marrow. Is this it, then? Is this how I finally lose all hope?
“Please, Annie.”
Her panicked breaths puff against my throat, then she places her hands on my chest. For a moment, it feels so fucking good to have her hands on me again, her warmth bleeding through my shirt and thawing the ice creeping over me—then she shoves forward with all her might.
I stumble back out of shock more than anything. Annie’s a little slip of a thing, and if I planted my feet, she couldn’t move me a single inch. It’d be like trying to shove a boulder onto its side. But move back I do, and she slips around me quicker than a flash and disappears into the crush of bodies on the dance floor. Chest numb, I turn and watch her go.
The gleam of her blonde hair flashes in the gaps between people here and there, and I could chase her easily, hunt her down like we’re still playing laser tag—but why would I do that? Everything has changed, and we’re not playing a game. If I stalk after her, if I refuse to let her go, I’ll be the monster she thinks I am.
No: Annie felt my knife. She pushed me away, and I’d rather die than scare her even more.
As far as I’m concerned, Annie’s decision is final.