Page 103 of Sucker For You

“I’m not going anywhere, Isabel!”

But he wrenched out of her grip. He left her on the sand—no—strode up to the pavement and his Jeep at the gate—no!—thrust an arm through the open driver-side window to pop the hood—leaving—grabbed a bundle of Erin’s remastered cables, and yanked—

What?

Wires dangled like de-electrified eels in his grip. Wes wheeled back around to her. His gaze was scorching through the dusk, but bright: too bright, his eyes glimmering. “See this? See these? I’m not smart enough to reattach the cables by myself. Which means we’re stuck here. And you’re stuck with me. So for once, just tell me, Isabel.Are you happy?”

Oh.

Should she be?Maybe. He’d sabotaged his precious Baby for her, hadn’t he? Wes couldn’t leave. He had no choice but to stay with her.

Good.

Except. . . could she really be happy, when he was still so angry? Angry with her, when she’d only wanted him to understand.

Worse than his anger, however, was that wet, treacherous gleam in his eyes.

She’d hurt him. She hadn’t known she could. But she had.

Are you happy?

“N. . . no,” she whispered.

She had what she wanted—him, here—even after she’d unleashed her fear and fury against him like a tidal wave storming the shore, after she’d spent herself and emerged panting, raw, and aching on the far side of her own horizon. . . and she wasn’t happy.

But:maybe I can be.

“No?” His voice was a ragged echo of hers.

“Yes,” and then she was running to him, abandoning herself to the undertow of her own wanting, reckless over shells in the gloom, unsteady across broken paving slabs near Baby and the gate, but still running,chasing.

“What the—” Wes caught her when she tripped. He hurtled backward past the Nice to Sea You! sign, under the gate’s half-moon arch and its crystals with his arms safe around her, even as he cursed, as cables scattered to the ground. “Isabel, what the hell are you—”

She took advantage of his teetering balance to seize his sweatshirt again with one hand, while she knotted her free fingers in his hair. She tugged him down toward her.

“—ah!” His curses choked off, exhaled hot and hard against her mouth.

She breathed him in. “I want to be happy.”

“I don’t underst—”

“I want to be happy,” she said. “I want to be happy with you.”

“. . . what?” He staggered back another step, then steadied against the porch risers. He swallowed thickly. His frown deepened. A shiver of shadow was the baffled shake of his head. She tightened her grip, holding him to her, angling her lips just a murmur away from his. “Isabel, I. . .”

“Please,” she said softly. “I want this, Wes.Please.”

I want you. . .

He could have made her wait.

He could have left her precariously balanced between elation and despair—waiting while he decided whether her wanting was enough, whether she was enough. Shewould havewaited, suspended in this ebb and flow of breath; waited for as long as he needed to want this, to want her as much as she wanted him.

But he didn’t make her wait.

“Oh,thank Christ,” and his mouth crashed down on hers.

Yes—