Page 67 of South of Justice
He crossed to her, handed her the mug. Coffee. Warm. Bitter. She curled her fingers around it, grateful for the heat.
He took a full step back, like he was putting a designated amount of distance between them. He did that a lot: came close, then retreated. Like a tide. She wondered idly what it would feel like if—when—he enveloped her completely. He wouldn’t be like water. He would be hot and hard and thick?—
She deleted the rest of that thought from her mind like she was clearing a line of code she didn’t need.
She rested the mug on her thigh. “Gates is risking a lot for us. You believe that?”
Ryan said nothing for a long time. Then, “No, I don’t. But I do know we can’t get into that compound without his help.” He placed his mug on the table beside her bed, then turned to look at her, voice softer now. “And I also know he helped save your life.”
A beat. Her voice held no warmth. “Maybe.” She looked at the wall, not at him. “Or maybe he’s saving something else.”
Ryan didn’t push. But he didn’t look away either.
The silence between them stretched, taut as wire. She felt his eyes on her. With it came a sensation of self-consciousness, something she’d hadn’t felt in a long time. Normally, when shesensed someone was watching her, it triggered only panic. She’d have to go back many years in her memory to find a time when it set off a feeling like this. A feeling like every centimeter of her skin was suddenly on display. Like she was exposed.
In an attempt to tamp the feeling down, she took a sip of coffee, then looked up at him over the rim of the mug. “El Muro, huh?” she said dryly.
His brow furrowed.
“I heard it through the wall,” she added. Her smile was faint but real. “Ironically enough.”
Ryan gave her a look.
She shrugged one shoulder, careful of the bandage. “But walls don’t just keep things out, you know. They also keep things in.”
Ryan didn’t speak, but something flickered across his face.
“So what happens,” she said quietly, “when the wall comes down?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward.
Her heart toppled over itself. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. It was like he’d rolled a live grenade onto the floor between them. This wasn’t joking and innuendo anymore: This was real and they both knew it.
The heat from his body met hers before his hands did—one hovering just beside her jaw, hesitant, the other brushing lightly against her wrist.
Her pulse thundered.
He leaned in. Just enough…but not quite enough. And waited.
Lucía lifted her chin. Her free hand came up, fingers catching the front of his shirt.
She whispered, “You gonna move, cowboy, or do I have to push the damn thing down myself?”
That made him smile. Then his mouth found hers.
It was gentle. Introductory. Either one of them could pull away and end it and no harm would be done. They could laugh about it awkwardly later and blame it on a heady combination of adrenaline, blood loss and the weird situation they both found themselves in.
His lips melded with hers, warm and wet, his mouth opening to glide his tongue against hers. Her heartbeat filled her whole head, and it pulsed between her legs.
She didn’t pull back. She pulled him closer.
The kiss scorched through Ryan like a match to dry tinder. For one fleeting, breathless second, all his caution, all his edges, melted. Her mouth was warm, insistent. A tremor went through her hand as she gripped his shirt, and he shifted immediately, mindful of her wound.
His hand cupped the uninjured side of her jaw with a reverence he hadn’t known he possessed. His other hovered just beneath her elbow, steady but feather-light, as if any pressure might unravel her entirely. The smell of her skin—clean sweat, blood, coffee, and something warm he’d started to think of as hers—seeped into his senses.
He drew her closer by instinct, only to feel her flinch, barely, as the motion tugged her shoulder. That broke through the haze. He exhaled a breath that was nearly a groan and leaned back just enough to search her face.
“You okay?” he murmured.
