Her throat was too tight to respond.
“Ava.Fillette.” His voice was calmer, more composed. “Open the door again,” he said, almost pleading. “Come on, sweetheart, unlock it.”
She forced her tongue to move. “Why?”
“Because…I didn’t do it right.”
Ava threw the locks, fumbling with the deadbolt, and then pulled the door wide.
Mercy’s tall, broad shape blotted out the sunlight. He crossed the threshold with slow, purposeful steps, backing her up, easing the door shut behind him. His eyes looked black here in the kitchen. It was with slow reverence that his hands lifted, and then settled at the sides of her head, his palms cradling her cheeks.
For the longest moment, he studied her face, and she held still, afraid he’d change his mind if she so much as breathed. Finally, one corner of his mouth twitched.
“I’m going to hell anyway, right?” he murmured.
And she closed her eyes as he leaned in and kissed her again.
She’d never kissed anyone before. It was so muchmessierthan she’d always thought it would be. It was so undignified and basic and unrefined.
It was glorious.
Mercy kissed her and held her face and backed her up a step at a time until she hit the counter.
Heat poured through her. Her clothes chafed her skin. She wanted so many things, to touch and be touched, and her lack of experience was painfully embarrassing as she dug her fingers into his leather jacket and opened her lips for him.
“Easy, baby,” he whispered against her mouth. “Easy.”
She broke away from him, far enough to catch a breath, close enough for his face to be an indistinct blur.
His lips touched her cheek, cruised along the edge of her jaw. She felt his tongue at the artery along her throat and she shivered, fingers tightening in his jacket.
Was this happening? Had she fallen asleep and this was a dream? Or was Mercy truly kissing her neck? His hands migrating down her shoulders, her arms.
She closed her eyes and felt tears catching in her lashes.
Maybe this was just pity. Maybe this was just the next step in his game of keep-away, a natural progression.
She reached up, until her fingers knotted in his hair. “Don’t tease me,” she whispered, holding him to her. “Don’t, Mercy.”
He stilled, his body curled over hers, his hands at her waist, his mouth at her collarbone. She felt the slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue against her clavicle and fine tremors passed beneath her skin. “You don’t like it?” he asked, his voice cold and dark.
She pressed her fingertips against his scalp. “I’ve had dreams about this.” She blinked hard at the tears, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. “But I’m so afraid you’ll push me away.”
Mercy straightened, and then his hands were at her hips, and he was lifting her up to sit on the counter. He lifted her like she was weightless. He stepped in closer, in between her knees, and he towered over her, one forearm braced on the cabinet face behind her head.
“Look at me.”
She did, head tipping back against the cabinet.
Never had she seen his face illuminated like this, with the harshness of the kill, but with his eyes wide and black and dilated. His voice was almost mocking, but in a gentle way, his words tight and full of humor all at once.
“Ava, how much have you done with your football boy?”
“What do you – oh! Done? No. Nothing.” Her chest was too tight and when she sucked in a deep breath, Mercy’s eyes shifted to her breasts.
“Not anything?” One of his big hands came up to the V of skin exposed by her shirt. His thumb toyed with the top button and his fingertips played against her leaping pulse. “You didn’t make out with him? Let him touch you?”
She wanted to shut her eyes, but she didn’t want to look away from his hand as it pressed between her breasts. “No. What do you think ‘nothing’ means?”
