5. Chapter 5
Outlaw
I shouldn't have kissed her.
But now that I have, I want to do it again. Want to taste her until I memorize every sweet sound she makes, until I know exactly how to make her gasp my name.
Lark doesn't say anything when I pull away. She just stands there with her lips parted and swollen, eyes wide and dark, like she's been sucker-punched. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I can see the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her throat.
And I stand there like a damn fool, every muscle in my body tight with restraint, hands still shaking from touching her.
"Sorry," I mutter, turning away before I do something stupid—like kiss her again. "That was… I shouldn't have done that."
"Why not?" she asks softly behind me, and her voice is rough.
I clench my jaw, staring at the fire like it holds answers. "Because I'm not that guy. Not anymore."
"What guy?" Her voice is closer now, and I can feel the heat of her body behind me. "The kind who kisses women who break into your cabin?"
I hear the smile in her words, but I don't turn around. Can't. Because if I look at her right now, with her lips still swollen from my mouth and her hair messed from my fingers, I'll lose what little control I have left.
"I don't get to want things," I say. "Not with a reputation like mine."
She's quiet for a beat, and I wonder if she's finally understanding. Finally seeing me for what I am.
Because I may not have killed a man, but I served hard time with men who did.
I had to do things in prison to survive that I’m not proud of.
I still bear the scars on my knuckles from a guy whose teeth I knocked out.
It was self-defense—I have a scar on my face to prove it—and he didn’t die, so my sentence wasn’t extended.
But still… prison changes a man. I have demons.
Then I feel her hand brush my arm—light, curious, bold. Her fingers are soft against my skin, and I have to bite back a groan.
"I don't care what other people think of you," she says.
I finally turn to look at her, and the certainty in her eyes nearly brings me to my knees. "You should."
Her dark eyes search mine, and I see the moment she makes her choice. "But I don't."
God help me, she means it.
And that's the part that scares me most.
Because I want to believe her. Want to believe that someone could look at me and see something other than the man who destroyed his life for a friend who barely speaks to him anymore.
He’s a respectable family man now, and he can’t associate with someone convicted of a felony. Even if the felony was his.
"Dinner's on the stove," I mutter, stepping away before I do something we'll both regret.
She nods, and I catch the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "Good. I’m starving."
I keep busy while she sets the table. It's the first time I've shared a meal with someone in years, and somehow, it feels natural. Easy.
Too easy.
I could get used to this.
I slide a bowl of beef stew across the table and sit opposite her, trying not to stare at her lips or the way her sweatshirt keeps slipping off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone.
"You always cook like this?" she asks, blowing on a spoonful. The steam rises between us, carrying the scent of herbs and slow-cooked meat.
"Only when I'm trying to impress a trespasser."
She grins, and it's like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "Mission accomplished."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, save for the occasional murmur of appreciation from her.
The stew is good—I learned to cook the hard way, out of necessity—but I can barely taste it.
All I can think about is that kiss. Her mouth.
The way she tasted like tea and rain and something I've been starving for without realizing.
When she stands to rinse her bowl, I move to take it from her, and our hands brush. The contact is electric, sending sparks up my arm and straight to my chest.
She freezes.
So do I.
We're close now. Too close. I can count the smattering of freckles across her nose. Can smell the vanilla scent that clings to her skin.
Her eyes flick to my lips.
And I almost lose it.
But I step back instead. Just an inch. Just enough to keep from reaching for her.
She exhales slowly, cheeks flushed pink. "You're really trying not to touch me, huh?"
"Trying real damn hard," I rasp.
"Is it working?"
I don't answer.
Because no, it's not. It's not working at all.
She lets out a shaky breath and pads back toward the living room, bare feet silent on the hardwood. She curls up on the couch with the blanket again, tucking her legs under her, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from following.
I stand there a moment longer, fists clenched, heart pounding like I just walked into a war zone instead of my own kitchen.
"Goodnight, Lark."
"Night, Outlaw," she says softly.
And then I lock myself in the bedroom like a coward.
Because if I stay out there one more second, I will touch her again.
And this time, I won't stop.