Chapter 4 Shelter from the Storm #2
And worse? The part of me that liked it.
I wanted to follow that drop with my tongue. I wanted to see just how far that lazy confidence would go.
What he’d do if I let him take control.
That dangerous fantasy returns, coiling hot in my belly—raw power, no hesitation, his hand in my hair while he used my mouth like it was his.
The thought alone has my thighs clenching. My pulse kicks into overdrive.
Nope.
Nope.
Absolutely, the hell not.
He’s exactly the kind of man who would take what he wants and leave scorched earth behind.
And I am not the kind of woman who lets herself burn. Well, for him…
I grit my teeth, straighten, and pull the zipper on my fleece up to my chin like armor.
He’s not saying another word. He doesn’t have to.
His silence is louder than any tease.
"Looks like we're stuck here until it passes." Mac peers out the window at the driving rain. "Unless you have a magical shortcut that defies the weather."
"Even I don't mess with lightning." I settle on the bench, leaving space for him. "Should blow over within an hour or two."
He sits beside me, the narrow bench forcing our shoulders to touch despite my efforts to maintain distance between us. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt of awareness through my body.
"So about those evacuation routes—" He starts.
"Are we really going to continue that argument?" I interrupt.
"I wasn't aware it was an argument." His voice carries a dangerous edge. "I thought it was a professional discussion about safety."
"You called my methods outdated."
"I suggested they might benefit from contemporary input."
"Same thing."
"No, it isn't." He shifts to face me, his knee now pressing against mine. "Why are you so resistant to outside perspective, Mackenzie?"
"Why are you so determined to question methods that have worked for decades?"
"Because 'it's always worked before' is the last thing people say before disaster strikes." His eyes flash. "Adaptation isn't criticism."
"You've been criticizing my approach since the moment you arrived."
"I've been challenging your assumptions. There's a difference."
"Not when it comes with that superior tone."
"Superior?" He looks genuinely startled. "That's what you think?"
"The hotshot captain from California with his fancy technology and impressive resume?" I stand, needing distance from his proximity. "Yes, you've made it abundantly clear you think your methods are superior."
He rises too, closing the distance I tried to create. "That's not—"
"It is." I back up until I hit the wall. "You waltz in here questioning maps I've spent years perfecting, dismissing local knowledge in favor of satellite data and standardized protocols that don't account for—"
"I'm questioning because I need to understand." He moves closer, voice dropping to a dangerous low. "Because people's lives depend on me making the right call, and I can't do that if I don't challenge every assumption and test every plan."
“There’s challenging and then there’s dismissing.” My chest rises and falls hard, breath punching through clenched teeth. “You started with dismissal.”
“And you started with hostility.” He plants one hand on the wall beside my head, his body crowding mine without touching. His voice stays maddeningly even, low and firm like it’s gospel. “From the moment we collided on that sidewalk, you decided I was the enemy.”
“You ruined my maps.”
“It was an accident.” Calm. Controlled. Delivered like a final ruling from a bench I never asked to stand before.
We’re nearly shouting now—or I am, at least. He’s not. He’s composed, voice moderated like he’s got the whole damn playbook memorized while I’m still scrambling in the margins.
Our faces are inches apart. Breath mingles—his, slow and steady. Mine, erratic. Furious. Too aware of the heat radiating between us. Too aware of him.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?” His voice is a low growl, eyes locked on mine, jaw tight enough to crack.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable?” We’re toe to toe now, and my heart is pounding like a war drum in my chest.
“Stubborn.” His gaze drops briefly—to my mouth—then drags back up, slow and deliberate.
“Arrogant.” My chin lifts, daring him to get closer. My pulse is a wildfire in my throat.
“Defensive.” He closes the last inch between us, breath hot against my rain-slick skin, tension snapping like live wire.
“Presumptuous.”
The word barely makes it past my lips before his hand slams against the wall beside my head, caging me in. His chest rises, falls, heavy.
So does mine.
The air between us is thick, humid with the storm, charged with everything we haven’t said.
Neither of us backs down.
Each word lands like a spark to tinder, narrowing the space between us until there’s nothing left but breath and heat and defiance. I can count his lashes. See the nick just beneath his jawline. Smell the fire and damp earth clinging to his skin.
"You drive me crazy, Mackenzie." His voice drops to a dangerous growl.
"My name is Jo."
"Do you always need to correct me?" His voice drops, low and dangerous, my name rolling off his tongue like a warning and a promise all at once. "Challenge me?"
"No." But it’s a lie, and we both hear it.
“You’ve been fighting me since day one. Every look. Every step. Every breath.”
His other hand slams into the wall beside my head—hard. The sound echoes like a shot. “You think I haven’t noticed?”
“This isn’t a fight.” My voice is breathless. Shaky.
“The hell it isn’t.” He leans in—just enough to make my knees threaten to give—but still doesn’t touch. Not yet. Not quite.
His body radiates heat, lightning barely contained. His breath brushes my lips. The air between us pulses.
“You want to hate me,” he growls, the words scraping across my skin like grit and fire. “But what you really want—what you’ve wanted since we met—is for me to rip that control out of your hands. Make you feel what it’s like to be undone.”
Silence coils, thick and breathless.
I don’t answer. Can’t. The tension is a vice around my throat. My heart thunders. My body trembles, no longer from cold but from the raw, aching hunger I’ve tried to deny since the moment we collided.
Then—
“Ah, fuck this. Don’t even know why I’m pretending.” It rips from him, raw and guttural, like something he’s been choking back for far too long. "I’m done holding back."
His gaze drops to my mouth, then his mouth slams into mine.
Hard. Hot. Starving.
The kiss hits like a thunderclap—wild and brutal and consuming.
One hand spears into my hair, fisting tight. The other wraps around my waist, yanking me against him so fast it knocks the air from my lungs.
He doesn’t coax. He conquers—tongue sweeping in, lips crashing down, owning me like it’s his right. Like he’s done waiting for permission.
And I don’t resist.
I burn.
I moan, helpless and furious at the way my body melts for him, with how he knows exactly how to kiss me—hard enough to punish, soft enough to addict.
It's furious, full of everything we haven't said, every glare, every fight.
Tongue, teeth, tension.
My mind goes blank.
I kiss him back with the same savage need, tongues tangling, teeth clashing, the taste of him addictive and wild. I want more. I want everything.
My body arches like it’s no longer mine. Like it’s his now. Claimed.
He breaks away first, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.
"You think you can just… do that?" I manage, even as my hips sway toward him. "Kiss me?"
“You didn’t tell me to stop.” His breath is fire against my lips. “Didn’t shove me away. Didn’t even try.”
"I didn't give you permission."
"I don't remember asking," he growls.
His grip tightens—my waist locked in his hands, held firm. Not cruel. Just certain. Possessive.
“This is happening,” he snarls, voice ragged with restraint. “You don’t get to pretend you don’t want this.”
“I don’t—”
“If the next words out of your mouth are a lie, don’t bother saying them.” His hand fists my shirt at the small of my back, jerking me closer. “Because if you don’t want this, say it now.”
I should say it. Push him away.
I don’t.
I should slam the brakes on whatever this is, but the breath catches sharp in my throat, and my spine curves helplessly into his hold, like my body already knows what I won’t let myself say.
Heat pulses through me—shame, need, the terrible relief of being seen. My head tips back. Lips parted. Bare. Trembling.
But the words won’t come. Not the right ones. Not the safe ones.
He waits. Still. Watching me unravel. Measuring how much further I’ll fall.
His hand rises, threading into my hair.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say what you want.”
“I…” My voice cracks. I can’t meet his eyes.
His grip tightens, and his eyes darken. “Not good enough.”
A whimper catches in my throat.
“Try again.”
I bite down, jaw tight, shame burning beneath my skin.
"You have to say it, Josephine." He leans in, mouth brushing my jaw. “Tell me the truth.”
“Don’t stop.” My whole body trembles. The dam breaks. The admission rips out of me, raw and trembling.
His breath catches. Just a flicker.
And then—God—he smiles. Dark. Wicked. Victorious.
“There she is.” His hand tightens on my hip. "At least, we’re on the same page when it comes to this."