Chapter Twenty-Seven
Evan
The way Molly stands in my doorway — braced, chin up, eyes sharp as a knife — reminds me of a wild animal that’s already decided it would rather bite than run.
She scans the threshold as if she’s expecting the floor to vanish or the walls to close in, but when I close the door behind her, she doesn’t flinch.
She just tracks the sound as the latch clicks with sharp certainty, then fixes that calm, lethal stare on me alone.
Every nerve in my body lights up. In the sudden hush, the only thing I hear is the faint hum of my refrigerator and the measured cadence of her breathing, as if she’s boxing up whatever feelings threaten to slip out the cracks.
She doesn’t bother with the act tonight—no small talk, no awkward shuffle or pretense of “just dropping by.” The tension between us is a live wire.
She’s here because she wants something, and from the way her mouth sets and her hands tighten into fists at her sides, it isn’t a drink or a friendly conversation.
It’s me. That knowledge is both a narcotic and a curse, because I want her the same way and I know what’s coming will burn us both.
“You sure?” I ask. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
She lifts her chin. “I knocked, didn’t I?”
“That’s not an answer.”
Molly’s mouth twitches like she hates that I’m making her say it. Like she hates that part of her likes it.
“Yes,” she says, clipped. “I’m sure. I want you, and I… love you.”
Those words. Why did she have to say those words?
“I love you, too.”
I should slow it down. I should offer her water, give her space, and let her set the pace.
That’s what a smart man does with a woman like this — one who’s learned survival the hard way.
But the way she’s standing there, boots planted, shoulders squared, cheeks faintly flushed… it breaks through all my walls.
She’s not here because she’s weak; she’s here because she’s choosing. Choosing me.
And that makes me want to put my hands on her like I’ve been starving.
I take one step closer.
Molly doesn’t retreat. She only tilts her head, eyes on my mouth like it’s a target.
“You were watching me today,” she says.
I grin. “I was. And you were watching me.”
A sharp little exhale leaves her nose, almost a laugh. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m not on a roof with my shirt off, trying to make half the town crash their trucks.” Her eyes narrow. “And don’t act like you didn’t know.”
“I knew,” I say. “Didn’t mind.”
Her gaze flashes — heat, annoyance, and something softer. Something so foreign to her that her tongue trips every time she names it.
“You’re trouble,” she mutters.
I’m not supposed to be. Not to her. Not like this. To her, I’m supposed to be easy, trustworthy, safe. Someone she can let in, someone she can relax with, someone who’s going to use her to tear her found family apart.
“The feeling’s mutual,” I reply, letting her see the smile in my eyes.
The charge in the room thickens, as if the walls themselves are leaning in to listen.
Molly sets her jaw again, then takes a step into my space and grabs the front of my T-shirt.
She yanks me down, not hard, but insistent, as if daring me to resist. The kiss she gives isn’t soft or searching.
It’s bruising, teeth and tongue, a clash of intent and hunger and something like desperation.
I taste the scald of whiskey and the faint salt of her skin, and it nearly undoes me.
She’s trying to prove something. That she’s the one in control. That she’s not broken and never will be. I let her because I want her to win.
But I want her, too. I want her so badly that my fingers twitch at my sides, fighting the urge to haul her closer and pin her to the wall. If I do, though, I’ll lose her. So I stand there and let her dictate the terms.
She breaks the kiss first, lips swollen, eyes flashing. “Are you going to just stand there?” she mutters.
I chuckle, her eyes flash, and my hands go to her hips on instinct, locking her in place without squeezing too tight. I feel the hitch of her breath when my palms settle there — an involuntary give, the smallest tell.
Then my lips take hers and I drop all the restraint that’s been holding me back.
She moans, urgent, deep, then balls her fists and shoves me, just a little. Molly breaks the kiss just long enough to glare up at me. “Don’t keep doing that.”
Her words die as she ends them with a kiss, her tongue sliding against mine, and then, just like that, she breaks us again.
“Don’t what?” I keep my voice low.
“Don’t keep teasing me at work. I have a job to do…”
My laugh is quiet. Short. “You know you love it.”
Her eyes flare. “Evan.”
I kiss her again — slower this time, deliberate, dragging it out until her grip on my shirt changes.
Less angry; more needy; pulling me closer, tightening, desperate.
I release my hold on her hips, slide my fingertips up her sides, circling the undersides of her breasts to brush her erect nipples through the fabric of her shirt and bra.
She shudders. “Fucking bastard.”
Her fingers slide up my chest, clutch, then clench. Like she’s fighting to remember what it feels like to be held without bracing for pain. I tilt my head and take my time with her mouth until she makes a sound she tries to swallow.
“Molly,” I breathe against her lips.
“Shut up,” she whispers, but it’s shaky. “Just… shut up.”
“And then what?”
She swallows, eyes bright and shy. Her voice quivers, a shaking thing full of lust and nerves. “Take me. Want me. Love me…”
That word again, spoken in this shy, almost fearful tone. She looks at me with wide eyes, almost expecting rejection, as if that word — that one, singular word that means so much, that frightens her so much — will send me running and prove true all those fears that have scarred her ragged heart.
“I will. I do.”
I walk her back two steps until the backs of her thighs bump the edge of my couch. She doesn’t sit. She hooks a boot behind my calf and pulls me closer like she’s the one moving the chess pieces.
Like she’s in control, and not that beating thing in her chest that scares her so much.
“Stop talking. We’re both overdressed,” she says. Her hands return to my shirt, gripping, lifting, and I grin and let her pull it off me.
I watch her eyes track down my chest, my stomach, the line of muscle that disappears into my jeans. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip, and the sight of it sends a jolt straight through me.
"Your turn," I say.
She reaches for the hem of her shirt, but I catch her wrists — gentle, not restraining. Just stopping. Her eyes snap to mine, a question and a challenge tangled together.
"Let me," I say.
For a heartbeat, I think she's going to fight me on it. That's what Molly does — she fights everything, even the things she wants. Especially the things she wants. But something shifts in her expression, a softening at the edges that costs her more than she'll ever admit.
She drops her hands.
I take my time. I lift the fabric slowly, letting my knuckles drag against her ribs, her sides, the soft skin beneath her breasts.
She shivers, and I feel it in my spine. When the shirt clears her head, I toss it somewhere behind me and just look at her — the freckles scattered across her collarbone, the faint pink scar near her hip that I've traced with my mouth before, the way her breath comes quick and shallow.
"You're staring," she says, but there's no bite to it. Just observation.
“I am." I reach around her back and unhook her bra with one hand — a skill I'm not proud of, but grateful for at this moment. The straps slide down her shoulders, and she lets them fall. "Can't help it."
Her chin lifts, defiant even now. "You going to do something about it, or just look?"
I answer by lowering my mouth to her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint trace of bar soap and something underneath that's pure Molly. She inhales sharply, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders like she needs an anchor.
I work my way down — slow, deliberate, savoring.
I don’t know how much longer, how many days, I’ll have left to enjoy Molly before my job rips our worlds apart.
I want it all. I want every taste of her.
My lips find the swell of her breast, then the peak, and when I take her nipple into my mouth, she makes a sound that's half gasp, half groan.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Good. I want the marks. I want proof that this happened, that she let me in, that for one night at least, we're real.
"Evan," she breathes, and my name in her mouth sounds different now — not a warning, not a weapon. A surrender.
I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, and there's a flush spreading down her neck and chest. She's beautiful like this — undone, unguarded, all her sharp edges softened by want.
"Bed," I say. It's not a question.
She nods once, quick, and I scoop her up before she can argue. Her legs wrap around my waist on instinct, and she laughs — a genuine laugh, surprised and breathless — as I carry her toward the bedroom.
"Show-off," she mutters against my neck.
"You love it."
"I tolerate it." But her arms tighten around me, and when I lay her down on the mattress, she doesn't let go right away. She holds on, pulling me down with her, as if she's afraid I'll disappear if she loosens her grip.
I brace myself over her, forearms on either side of her head, and just breathe. Her hair fans out across my pillow, a riot of red against the white. Her chest rises and falls beneath me, and I can feel her heartbeat — fast, erratic, matching my own.
"Hey," I say softly.
Her eyes meet mine. "Hey." Then she swallows. "I'm nervous."
The admission costs her something. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way she looks away like she can't stand for me to see her vulnerable.
“Nervous?”