Page 57 of Brick's Retribution
"Yeah," he agrees. "It does."
I should pull away.
I should remember that we're still being hunted, still in danger, still operating under impossible circumstances. But when he looks at me like that—like I'm something precious and perfect and his—nothing else seems to matter.
I lean forward and kiss him, soft and careful of his injuries.
He responds immediately, his good arm coming around my waist to pull me closer.
"Are you sure?" he asks against my lips, his voice rough with want and pain.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," I reply honestly.
Brick makes me feel seen, valued, protected—not as Mateo Torres's daughter or a cartel asset, but as a woman worth fighting for.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier this time, and I lose myself in the taste and heat of him.
My hands slide over his chest, careful of his injuries but needing to touch, to reassure myself he's alive and whole and mine.
"Not here," he says, breaking away with visible effort. "You deserve better than a drainage tunnel."
"I don't care where we are," I tell him truthfully. "I just need you."
Something in my voice makes his eyes darken with desire.
His thumb traces my lower lip, and I catch it gently between my teeth, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him.
"Imani," he warns, his voice strained.
"What?" I ask innocently, though there's nothing innocent about the way I'm looking at him.
Instead of answering, he threads his fingers through my hair and pulls me into another kiss, this one deeper and more demanding.
I can taste his need, his restraint cracking under the pressure of everything we've been through together.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath to touch warm skin and hard muscle.
He hisses at the contact, whether from his injuries or desire, I'm not sure.
"Careful," he breathes. "Don't want to start bleeding again."
"Then let me take care of you," I whisper, my lips finding the pulse point at his throat.
He groans, a sound that goes straight through me like liquid fire.
His good hand fists in my hair as I trail soft kisses along his jawline, down his neck, careful to avoid his bandaged shoulder.
"This is crazy," he says, even as his body responds to my touch.
"Everything about this situation is crazy," I reply, pulling back to look at him. "But this—us—this is the first thing that's felt real since this nightmare started."
The truth of that statement hangs between us.
"I've wanted this since the moment I saw you," he admits, his thumb stroking along my cheekbone. "Even when I was trying to convince myself it was just the job."
"It stopped being just a job for me too," I confess. "You make me feel things I didn't know I was capable of feeling."
The admission costs me something—a piece of the armor I've worn for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to be without it.
