Chapter 13 Definitely Not Trying To Kiss Her #3
“I’m a man who’s wanted to kiss you for weeks. Who watched you almost get hurt tonight. Who watched you down shots as if you could outrun your own head.” I pause, letting the truth sit between us. “And I’m very aware that if I kiss you right now, it complicates everything.”
Her throat works, the motion small in the quiet room. “So don’t.”
A faint curve tugs at my mouth, even while my chest stays tight. “Is that you telling me you don’t want me to?”
She swallows again, the sound louder than it should be in her too-still house.
“I don’t know what I want.” The words come out raw, then she exhales like she’s trying to keep herself from unraveling.
“My life’s a mess right now. I don’t know what I’m doing with Bash, or the shop, or you, or Theo, or Jax…
” Her voice catches and she cuts herself off, breathing hard.
“But I know I’m getting too used to having you three nearby.
I know I’m starting to care too much.” Her eyes flick to mine, honest in a way that hurts.
“The only thing I’m sure of is this.” A beat. “You sitting here. Right now.”
Good enough.
I slide my hand to her jaw, fingers along the side of her face, resting my thumb just below her cheekbone. Her skin is warm and soft under my calluses as she leans into it before she can stop herself, just a fraction, but enough.
“Then I’m going to kiss you,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady even while something in me is already pulling forward. “And I’m going to stop after that.”
Her eyes flash bright in the low light. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“That’s because I know where my line is tonight.” I hold her gaze, letting her see I mean it. “I’m not crossing it. Not even if you taste as good as I think you will.”
Color rushes her cheeks, fast and obvious. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
“I’m very optimistic.” The words come out quieter, almost amused, though my chest is too tight for it to be a joke.
Her lips twitch, then part on a shaky breath when I lean in.
I don’t rush. I can, but I don’t. I close the distance slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind, to turn away, to tell me to stop without having to say it.
My hands stay controlled, my movements methodical.
This isn’t a bar dare or a heat-of-the-moment mistake.
This is me choosing. Choosing her. Choosing the fact that once I start, I won’t want to stop.
She doesn’t move away, dropping her eyes to my mouth for a second, then lifting them again. Tension makes her hand tighten in the couch cushion, not bracing to fight, just… bracing to feel.
Our noses brush first. Her breath hits my lips, warm and unsteady, and something in my chest goes tight in a way that has nothing to do with want and everything to do with the sudden, brutal clarity of how much I’ve been holding back. I angle my head and press my mouth to hers.
The first touch is soft, almost careful. Her lips are a little dry from the air and the alcohol, and she makes a small sound that punches straight through me, surprised by gentleness, surprised by how little I’m asking of her in that first second.
I should stop. Just to prove I can.
Instead, I breathe her in and let myself have the truth of it: this is what I’ve wanted, quietly, stubbornly, for weeks. Not the kiss itself. The permission. The closeness. The moment where she doesn’t have to carry everything alone.
Then she leans in.
The kiss deepens in a slow, inevitable slide.
My control doesn’t vanish, it narrows, turning into focus.
I let my thumb stroke her jaw once, coaxing, asking without words.
She answers, lips parting under mine, and the second my tongue brushes hers, she makes a noise that breaks straight through every rule I set for myself tonight.
Heat flares up immediately, followed by something steadier that scares me more.
This urge to keep her, to make this real, to prove with my hands what I’ve been trying to say with restraint.
Her good hand lands on my chest, fingers fisting in my shirt.
Not pushing me away, but pulling me in. And I feel it everywhere.
Not just the pull of her mouth, not just the way she fits against me, but the fact that she chose it too. That she’s letting me close, even with her life in pieces, even with her fear right under the surface. The loyalty in me locks into place with a quiet certainty.
I can stop after this.
I can.
I just don’t want to.
After a long stretch that could’ve been seconds or hours, I force myself to ease up.
Her lips chase mine the second I start to pull back, and it nearly undoes me. I give her one last slow pass, then break the kiss, breathing against her mouth for a moment before I lean back just enough to see her.
Her eyes slowly open. Her pupils are huge. Her lips are swollen, a shade darker than before, and she looks at me like she can’t decide whether she wants to hit me or drag me closer.
“That’s stopping?” The question comes out low and rough, her voice still caught in whatever we just started.
“That’s pausing.” I keep my forehead close, my tone quiet and steady, as if calm will make this easier on both of us. “Stopping would’ve been earlier.”
She huffs out something that tries to be a laugh, then breaks halfway through, turning into a shaky breath. “I hate that you’re good at that.”
“You’ll live.” The words land soft, almost gentle, even as my pulse keeps hammering.
Her bandaged hand lifts slowly, heavy with pain and hesitation, and she sets it against the center of my chest, right over my heartbeat, as if she needs proof I’m real.
“That was…” She trails off, pulling in a breath as her fingers press lightly. “A bad idea.”
“Probably.” I don’t argue, don’t pretend it’s clean or simple.
“Do it again.”
I almost say no. Almost cling to the safe version of this, the one-kiss limit, the part where I walk away feeling in control.
Then I see it, the flash of fear tucked behind her eyes, the way her shoulders aren’t up around her ears for once, the raw need threaded through the request. Not just heat.
Connection. Something that belongs to her, not Bash’s, not the shop’s, not anyone else’s.
“One more.” I make it a promise and a boundary at the same time. “Then we sleep.”
She nods fast, like if she thinks too hard, she’ll ruin it.
This time, when I kiss her, I let a little more of what I’ve been holding back slip through.
My hand slides from her jaw into her hair, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of her neck. I angle her head where I want it, deepening the kiss, and she melts into it immediately, mouth opening under mine like she’s been waiting for this exact thing.
She shifts closer, knee bumping my thigh, then tucks her leg up onto the couch, body turning toward me fully. Her chest presses to my side. Her hand slides up from my chest to my shoulder, clinging there.
I keep it controlled, but my control is hanging on by a string. The kiss is still slow, but heavier. Every stroke of my tongue is a map I’m drawing for later. When I finally pull back, it’s because I have to and not because I want to.
She’s breathing hard, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. She blinks up at me like she’s trying to remember why we're stopping.
“Okay.” Her voice barely clears a whisper, breathy and wrecked in the best way. “Yeah. Pausing is stupid.”
“You’ll thank me in the morning.” My thumb brushes the damp corner of her mouth, gentle, controlled.
“Doubt it.” The word comes out as a mutter, but her eyes stay on mine.
I press a quick kiss to her forehead before I can overthink it. She closes her eyes at the contact, shoulders easing another notch.
“Bed.” I keep it quiet, a soft directive. “Before you fall asleep face first on the couch.”
“You staying?” She doesn’t move yet when she asks, as if she’s afraid the moment she does, she’ll lose her nerve.
“If you want me to.” I hold her gaze and let her decide.
She hesitates. That old instinct to tell me to get out flashes in her eyes, then fades.
“I don’t…” She swallows, the words catching once. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Then you won’t be.” Simple. Certain.
“Couch for you.” She points a finger at me as she shifts away, recovering her bite. “You so much as try to crawl into my bed, I’m punching you with the good hand.”
“Understood.” The answer comes easy, honest. “I mean it.”
She pushes to her feet, a little unsteady now that the adrenaline’s gone and the kisses have scrambled whatever brain chemistry she usually runs on.
She disappears down the short hall, and the house fills with small sounds: the bathroom door, the rush of water, a cabinet opening and closing with quiet purpose.
I grab the folded blanket from the basket beside the couch, shake it out, then drop down onto the cushions. They aren’t comfortable, but they’re mine for the night, and they mean I get to stay.
Her door opens again. She pauses in the frame, hair down now, hand bandaged in my work, wearing a loose shirt that hits mid-thigh. She looks smaller and more dangerous somehow, all soft edges with a blade tucked underneath.
“You good out here?” The question comes lightly, but her eyes check me anyway.
“I’m good.” I settle the blanket over my legs, making the point without making a big thing of it. “Go sleep.”
She nods, then doesn’t close the door all the way. She leaves it cracked a few inches, bedside lamp spilling a thin stripe of light into the hall.
“Elias?” Her voice softens on my name, hesitant in a way she probably hates.
“Yeah?”
“That fight…” She lingers on the words, still standing there. “You sure they’re alright?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No doubt. “If something was wrong, my phone would be blowing up.”
Her exhale is slow, relieved, as if that’s what she needed more than anything else I’ve said tonight. “Okay.”
“Sleep, Raine.” I keep my voice low, steady, the closest thing to a promise I can give her. “I’ve got it.”
She disappears back into her room. A second later, the light clicks off, and the house settles into a soft hum.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, the taste of her still on my tongue, the memory of her mouth still ghosting mine.
This is going to make everything messier.
But that’s okay. I’ve never been afraid of a mess.