Truly (New York 1)

Her mouth was soft, though, as soft as he’d known it would be. She tasted warm and sweet, sharp with vinegar. Borscht. He licked along her plump bottom lip.

She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. Probably not a good sign, but his other hand rose anyway, cupping her head, his fingers rooting in her hair.

Let me in.

She sucked a deep, unsteady breath through her nose. Her lips parted.

Relief flooded him, so close to pleasure that his cock hardened painfully. Ben dropped one hand to her waist and tugged her tight against him. He wanted her to know. He wanted inside her, to be consumed in his own stupidity, erased for however many blissful, empty minutes it took.

This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing with her, but he didn’t care. She tasted amazing, and he was good at this. He could make sure he gave her as much as he planned to take.

When he tilted her head and swept his tongue into her mouth, she stiffened in surprise. As if she didn’t know the tongue part came next, after the mouth-opening.

He pulled back, forcing himself to be soft. Coaxing instead of demanding. Light kisses on her lips. Her chin. Beneath her jaw. He breathed beside her ear, and she shivered. “Let me kiss you.”

He could feel the rush of her pulse in her neck when he moved his lips downward. He wanted to lick there, where the blood moved through her. “Let me take you to bed.”

She became even more rigid, forcing her torso away from him. When he looked up, she said, “Let go.”

He dropped his hands, and she used that whip on him again—the sour mouth, the angry flash in her eyes. She bent down to gather her bags from the sidewalk, and his conscience took up residence on his right shoulder and punched him in the temple, hard.

“Let me take you to bed?” You miserable piece of shit.

She started walking toward the corner. He chased after her. “May.”

“Don’t.”

Two days. Two days since she’d left her boyfriend, and Ben had just propositioned her after a twenty-second kiss. Ten seconds of which she’d participated in.

Beyond low, Hausman. Worse than a worm. You’re a fucking leech.

“Where are you going?” he called.

She didn’t answer. She walked faster.

“You can’t leave, May.”

“Isn’t this the way to the subway?”

The WALK sign illuminated, and she crossed the road. He hurried to catch up. “The subway to where?”

“Your apartment. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Back to your place, bees, laundry.”

“Yeah. But you can’t—” He couldn’t see her face, and he had no idea if she was taking him up on his offer or—he had no idea. Her voice was flat, her stride so long he was having trouble keeping up. “Don’t we need to talk about …”

She turned her head, eyebrows lifted, and wow was she ever mad. But the amazing thing was that n

one of the anger in her eyes made it into her tone. “About what?”

“What just happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

And then she was walking again, fast, and his heart was racing, his blood pounding in his ears. He started to feel light-headed.

Deep breath. Calm.

Think of the lake, think of the roof of the chicken house, calm the fuck down.