My breath catches.
“Why didn’t you?”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Because you told me where I stand.”
Heat rolls through me, low and mean.
I step closer.
He doesn’t move.
Smart man.
I touch his cut with two fingers. Just leather. Just a patch. Still, his whole body goes tight like I put my hand somewhere indecent.
“Blanquito,” I whisper, “you have any idea how annoying it is that listening looks good on you?”
His voice roughens. “You have any idea how fucked I am watching you walk around bruised and beautiful and not touching you?”
My thighs clench.
Traitorous body.
“Poor biker,” I say. “So tragic.”
“Mean woman.”
“Accurate woman.”
He leans one shoulder against the wall, putting his hands behind his back like he doesn’t trust them. The move is so deliberate, so controlled, it lights me up worse than if he grabbed me. Because I know what those hands feel like when they stop behaving. I know how rough he can be when I say yes, and how much worse it feels now that he is waiting for it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Keeping my hands where they won’t get me killed.”
“By who?”
“You. Darling. Diablo. That fucking bird somehow.”
I laugh.
Then he smiles.
Not big.
Not safe.
That smartass, dirty, dangerous curve I have felt against my skin.
I should walk away.
Instead I close the last inch between us and press my mouth to his.
It is a mistake.
It is also the first time all night I feel alive in a way that has nothing to do with surviving.