Page 36 of Love on the Edge
"You’re not."
She steps closer, shoulders squared, jaw tight, like she’s daring me to challenge her. "I don’t need you hovering. I don’t need you checking on me. I don’t need you acting like you give a damn about how I feel."
That pisses me off.
"You think I don’t?" I fire back.
"I think it doesn’t matter," she snaps. "I think I have more important things to focus on than whatever the hell this is."
Her breathing is sharp, fast, like she’s holding back something bigger than this fight. I should walk away. I should let it go.
But I don’t.
"You’re running yourself into the ground."
"And?" She tilts her head, daring me to say it out loud.
"And it’s going to destroy you."
Her jaw tightens. Her fists clench at her sides. For a second, I think she’s going to shove me away again.
Then, her hands are on me.
She grabs my wrist. Hard. Her fingers wrap tight, her body tense, her breathing unsteady.
"Come with me," she says.
I hesitate. "Where are we going?"
She grabs my shirt. Her eyes flick to my mouth.
She leans in—just enough to let the tension sink into my skin, to let the heat between us stretch unbearably thin.
"You know what would make me feel better?" she murmurs.
A breath. A pause.
I swallow. "What?"
A smirk tugs at her lips, dark and reckless, but her eyes say something else. "Let’s fuck."
And then she yanks me inside.
The argument still lingers in the air. Sharp. Heated. Unresolved.
She doesn’t want to talk. She wants to forget.
And she wants to do it with me.
She yanks me forward, mouth crashing into mine. Hard. Desperate. Teeth, tongue, breath—nothing soft, nothing hesitant.
I growl against her lips, grabbing her hips, spinning her, pressing her against the locker before she can second-guess this. Her breath stutters at the impact.
She likes it.
Her hands move fast, tugging at my shirt, nails dragging over my abs, scraping along my obliques as she pulls me in. My hands are already at her leggings, shoving them down just enough, just so I can touch her.
Fuck. She’s drenched.
