Need. Possession. A choice already made.
Then she moves.
Her hands grab my collar, fisting the fabric. Her body presses against mine—heat, curves, determination. Then her mouth is on mine. The kiss is rough and deep. A claim.
My control shatters like glass.
I yank her against me, crushing her to my chest, kissing her like she’s air and I’ve been drowning. My hands span her waist, lifting her slightly to align our bodies.
She responds fiercely, gripping my shirt tighter and moaning into my mouth. That sound—Jesus, that sound nearly undoes me. I back her against the workbench, lifting her onto it without breaking the kiss. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me in place as if I’d ever consider leaving.
Somewhere, someone clears their throat. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the taste of her, the feel of her against me.
I only let her breathe when she pulls back, her fingers still curled into my shirt, her breath still uneven. Her lips are swollen from our kiss, her cheeks flushed.
“Mine,” I growl, the word ripped from some primal place inside me.
Her eyes widen, but not with fear. With recognition. With claiming possession.
“Yours,” she whispers.
Sheriff Lucas clears his throat again, louder this time. “I'm still here, you know.”
George laughs, slightly breathless. She doesn't move away from me, doesn't unlock her legs from my waist. If anything, she pulls me closer, defiant even now.
“Yeah, we know,” she says, but her eyes stay locked on mine.
I should care that her father is watching. I should care that we’re in public. But I don’t. Not when I’ve finally found what I’ve been searching for without knowing it.
“We need to talk,” the sheriff says, his voice strained. “All of us. But maybe...” He gestures vaguely. “Later.”
“Later,” I agree, not taking my eyes off George.
Her father sighs heavily, turns to leave, then pauses.
I brace myself. The man just watched me kiss his daughter like she was the only thing keeping me breathing. I expect a threat, a warning—hell, maybe even a right hook.
But instead, he scrubs a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking between us. Something in his expression shifts and softens.
“George, I…” His words trail off as he looks at his daughter.
I gently disentangle myself from George and step back. Not away. Never away. But I give them space. This is between father and daughter. I'll never come between that, no matter how much the possessive beast inside me snarls at the distance.
The sheriff's next words come slowly, as though they hurt. “I should have listened. To both of you.”
I stay quiet. This isn't my moment. But I hear the truth in it, the weight of his failure.
“Yeah. You should have,” George says quietly.
He clears his throat again, shifting on his feet. “I was wrong about Marcus. I just wanted you to be taken care of, George. I wanted to know you were safe. But I see now... you don’t need someone to look after you.” He nods, finally meeting her eyes. “You’ve been doing just fine on your own.”
Her breath catches.
“I’m proud of you.” The words are rusty like they’ve been lodged in his throat for too long.
George doesn’t move, but I see the tears in her eyes and the way her lips part slightly as if she wants to say something but can’t find the words.
His throat works as he glances away, like looking at her too long will break him. “You remind me of your mom. She had the same fire. Same way of pushing back, even when she knew it would cost her. Drove me nuts, but she had the biggest heart. People loved her for it. I loved her for it.”
