Chapter Thirty-Two
Molly
After my shift, I don’t even pretend I’m going home to be responsible.
Not after what Evan did. Not after he stood in front of the room, threw my rules in my face in the hottest way possible, and claimed me as his.
No, there’s no pretending. There’s just the truth. Which means the only option is to go home and do something that would make The Bloodhound Gang blush.
I lock the bar, toss Riley a distracted wave, and walk out of The Noble Fir with my pulse already sprinting.
The night air is damp and sharp, laden with the scent of pine and asphalt, and punctuated by my headlights smearing across the darkly wet pavement.
My truck starts on the first try — purrs like it’s proud of itself, which it should be, coming back to life after nearly dying on me a while ago, though the reason it’s still alive is because of some work Evan did, which he told me about with a wink and a smirk — and the gentle, comforting rumble of my truck’s aged engine should calm me down.
It doesn’t.
Because the entire drive home I’m thinking about Evan’s hands. His mouth. The way he looks at me like I’m something only he’s allowed to want.
And how he’ll fight like hell to keep it that way.
By the time I’m climbing the stairs to my floor, my nerves are humming like a live wire dipped in gasoline.
I stop at my door.
Stare at it.
Then turn on my heel and knock on his.
Hard.
One. Two. Three.
The door opens like he was standing there waiting. Like he knew.
Evan fills the doorway in a dark T-shirt and sweats, hair damp like he showered, forearms bare, eyes steady. No smile, but something warmer than one. Like he heard me coming and decided not to run.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. It burns. There’s fire in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly why I’m here, but he’s going to make me say it. “You okay? You want to talk about what happened earlier?”
I should say yes. I should say no. I should say something normal.
But I don’t want to talk about what happened earlier. I want to act on it.
Decisively.
I step forward, grab his shirt, and pull him into the hall like I’m done asking permission for anything.
His breath catches. His lips twitch upward, a smirk waiting to happen; that he teases me with it pisses me off even more — Evan knows what’s coming, but still wants to play coy, because he loves how it is when he works me up.
Maybe I like it too.
“What is it, Molly?”
“Shut up, you possessive bastard,” I whisper, and I kiss him.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t careful. It’s the kiss I’ve been denying myself all damn day.
The kiss that says, “Fuck you for breaking my rules, and I’m going to fuck you for breaking my rules, you hardheaded son of a bitch.
” My mouth crashes into his, and he makes a sound against my lips that turns my knees into water.
“You seem worked up about something,” he murmurs.
“Do I? Maybe it’s because fuck you, asshole.”
His response is a dark chuckle as he grabs my hips and backs us into his apartment without breaking the kiss, foot hooking the door closed behind us.
The lock clicks. His hands move like he’s done pretending.
One palm slides up my back, fingers splaying like he’s claiming the shape of me.
The other cups my jaw, tilting my face just right, deepening the kiss until my head spins.
I drag my nails down his chest through the fabric of his shirt. “You were waiting for me.”
His mouth skims my cheek, my throat. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I went through all that trouble to claim you in front of everyone, and I’m sick of pretending I don’t want you. Like I don’t want to fuck your brains out every time I’m around you.”
My stomach flips and I feel like I’m nineteen again, stupid and full of want.
“Bedroom,” I order, because if I don’t move us now, I’ll melt into a puddle on his carpet.
His eyes flash. “Finally.”
He doesn’t sweep me up like some fantasy; his grip tightens on my hips and he guides me to his bedroom door, his lips still on mine, my lips still consumed by his, my heart racing.
He shuts the bedroom door with a kick and presses me against it, mouth on mine again, and the world narrows to heat and breath and the rough slide of his stubble along my skin.
I break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “You’re trouble.”
He lets out a low, dark laugh. “You’re the one who tried to knock my door down.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
My hands leave his chest to reach for the buttons of my jeans. “Fine.”
I shove the denim down my hips, and Evan's eyes track the movement like I'm the only thing in the world worth watching. His hands find my waist again, thumbs hooking into the waistband of my underwear, and he drops to his knees in one smooth motion that makes my breath catch.
He looks up at me, eyes dark and hungry. "You sure about this?"
I thread my fingers through his hair and tug, not gentle. "Do I look unsure?"
His mouth curves into something wicked. "No, ma'am."
"Stop calling me that."
"Can't," he says, and then his mouth is on my hip, kissing a path that makes my legs shake. "It's too much fun watching you get all worked up."
I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his fun, but then his teeth graze the inside of my thigh and every coherent thought evaporates. My head hits the door with a soft thunk, and I feel him smile against my skin.
"Evan," I manage, and it comes out breathless, needy, completely undone.
"Right here," he murmurs, and then his hands are sliding my underwear down, and I'm stepping out of them, and his mouth is…
"Oh, fuck," I gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.
He takes his time. Deliberate. Focused. Like he's got all night and plans to use every second to take me apart piece by piece. His tongue traces patterns that make my spine arch, my hips roll, my breath come in short, desperate bursts.
"You taste so good," he says against me, and the vibration of his voice sends a shudder through my whole body.
I can't respond. Can't think. Can only feel the steady, relentless pressure building in my core, climbing higher with every stroke of his tongue, every press of his fingers.
My thighs start to shake, and he holds me steady, hands gripping my hips like he knows exactly how close I am to falling apart.
"Let go," he says, and it's a command, not a request.
So I do.
The orgasm rips through me like lightning, white-hot and devastating, and I bite down on my fist to keep from screaming. Evan works me through it, gentle now, coaxing out every tremor until I'm boneless and gasping and trying to remember how my legs work.
He stands slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on mine. "Bed. Now."
I nod, because words are beyond me, and let him guide me to the mattress. My shirt comes off. My bra follows. And then I'm pulling his shirt over his head, running my hands over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle that flex under my touch.
"You're staring," he says.
"I'm appreciating," I correct. “I want to look over what I’m about to ride before I hop on it.”
I kiss him, taste myself on his lips, then push him back onto his bed. He goes willingly, eyes locked on mine like he's daring me to follow through. His hands find my waist as I climb over him, straddling his hips, and the heat of him through his sweats makes my breath hitch.
“Are you going to just sit there?” he says, echoing my words from before.
I lean down until my mouth is an inch from his. "I'm going to do whatever the hell I want."
His grin is wicked. "Good."
I kiss him hard, grinding my hips down, and the sound he makes is raw and desperate and everything I need to hear right now.
My hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly, and I feel the way his muscles jump under my touch.
The way his breath catches. The way his grip on my waist tightens as if he's fighting not to flip me over and take control.
"Molly," he breathes against my mouth. “Oh, fuck, Molly.”
"What?"
"You're killing me."
"Good," I say, and bite his lower lip. “After today, it’s what you deserve.”
His hips buck up involuntarily, and I feel exactly how much he wants this, how much he's been holding back.
It sends a thrill through me that's half power, half need.
I sit up, hands braced on his chest, and look down at him — his hair messy from my fingers, his lips swollen from my mouth, his eyes dark and hungry and fixed on me like I'm the only thing that matters.
"Take these off," I say, tugging at his jeans.
He lifts his hips and helps me pull them down, and then there's nothing between us except want and heat and the sound of our breathing filling the room. I wrap my hand around him, feel his thickness, and his whole body goes rigid, a hiss escaping through his teeth.
"Fuck," he groans.
I stroke him slowly, watching his face, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut for just a second before snapping back open like he can't stand not looking at me.
"You like that?" I ask, because I want to hear him say it.
"Yes," he says, voice wrecked. "God, yes."
I lean down and kiss him again, deep and messy, and position myself over him.
The anticipation makes my whole body tremble.
I lower myself slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming and exactly what I need.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, and I don't care.
I want the marks. I want every proof that this is real, that he's mine, that I'm his.
"Molly," he says my name like a prayer as I rock my hips, just once, just enough to make his eyes roll in his head and his breath catch in a moan. “Fuck, Molly.”
I move, slowly at first, finding the rhythm, the angle that makes my toes curl. His hands slide up my sides, cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I gasp, head falling back. The pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in my core, and I ride him harder, chasing it, needing it.