Page 53 of Pawn

Not soft. Not forgiveness. The opposite of forgiveness — the physical expression of a woman who is furious and wants him anyway and is done pretending those two things cancel each other out.

My hands find his jacket the way they found it on the dark street. My mouth finds his the way it found it before I knew his name. Except now I know his name, and everything else. Now I know his mother’s name. Now I know that the man whose breath is breaking against my lips is the son of the woman I have hated since I was fifteen years old, listening to my father’s voice fracture on a word he could not control.

And I do not stop.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I say against his mouth.

“I know.”

“This doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“I know.”

“This means I am choosing this. With the information. With the names. With every locked door you just blew open sitting in my chest. I am choosing this and you do not get to pretend it is anything other than what it is.”

His hands. On my waist. Open. Not gripping — holding. The difference between those two things is the difference between every man who has touched me and this one. Every man grips. Claims. Closes his fingers around whatever he wants and squeezes until the shape conforms to his hand.

Guido holds with open palms. The way you hold something you know you might lose.

We do not make it to a bed. We get in his car parked on a side street three blocks from the bench where he detonated my life. The backseat. His hands shake against my skin the way they did the first night—not from hesitation. From the effort of keeping his hands open when every instinct is telling him to close them.

I pull him closer. Harder. The anger, the fury, and the wanting tangled together so completely I cannot separate them, and I stop trying. Let them burn in the same fire. Let the anger live in my hips, and the wanting live in my throat, and the devastating recognition that our frequencies match — even now, even knowing, even with his mother’s name sitting between us like a blade neither of us will put down — let all of it erupt with scorching fire in the space where his skin meets mine.

The car idles on a side street, the engine a low hum beneath the weight of what he just told me. The city moves past the fogged windows, a blur of neon and indifference. Neither of us pretends this is clean. Not after the words he dropped like a blade between us—secrets that should have made me walk away, should have made me hate him. But the anger isn’t clean either. It’s tangled up with something darker, hotter, something that’s been simmering since the first time his hands shook against my skin.

I turn to him, the leather creaking under me. His jaw is set, that unreadable mask of his firmly in place. But his eyes—Zina’s eyes—are warm, watchful, like he’s waiting for me to explode. And I will. Just not the way he thinks.

“You really think that changes anything?” My voice is low, rough. The words taste like venom and want, all at once.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. The air between us is thick enough to choke on.

I lunge.

My hand fists in his jacket. I yank him toward me, and his body follows without resistance, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands find my waist, fingers digging in, but not to push me away—to pull me closer. The effort of keeping them open is written all over him, the way his muscles tense, the way his breath hitches. He wants to grab, to claim, but he’s holding back. Not me. I’m done holding back.

Our mouths collide. Not soft. Not forgiveness. The opposite of forgiveness. My lips bruise against his, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. He tastes like coffee and lies, and I fucking hate how much I want more. My anger isn’t a wall between us—it’s the goddamn fuel. Every secret, every betrayal, every reason this is wrong twists into the kiss, into the way my nails rake down his chest.

He groans into my mouth, low and rough, and I swallow it down like it’s mine. His hands finally give in, gripping my thighs, hauling me onto his lap. The car shifts under us, the suspension groaning as I straddle him, my knees pressing into the leather. The heat between my legs is unbearable, the friction of my jeans against his cock making my head spin.

“Fuck you,” I growl against his lips, but my hips roll forward anyway, grinding down on him. The ridge of his dick is hard, insistent, and I want to ruin him for it. Ruin myself on it.

His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to break the kiss. His breath is ragged, his dark eyes burning into mine. “Liana—”

“Don’t.” I don’t want his words. Not now. I want his body, his submission, his goddamn surrender. I shove him back against the seat, the window fogging up under the heat of our skin. My other hand slams against the glass, palm splayed, fingers leaving smudges in the condensation. The car is small, the space tight, but it’s enough. It’s all we need.

I push him down further, until he’s half-reclined against the back seat, his long legs sprawled towards the front of the car between the two front seats. Then I’m on him, my body covering his, my thighs clamping around his hips. He’s bigger than me, broader, but I’ve got him pinned. His hands fly to my waist, but I bat one away, lace my fingers through his, and slam it above his head. The other I guide to my breast, pressing his palm against me, letting him feel how hard my nipple is through the thin fabric of my shirt.

“You don’t get to talk,” I snap, but my voice is thick, my body already betraying me. His thumb flicks over my nipple, and I hiss, arching into his touch. Fuck, I hate how good it feels. Hate that I want more.

I lean down, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You don’t get to explain. You don’t get to make this right.” My teeth graze his earlobe, then the sensitive skin of his neck. He shudders beneath me, his cock twitching against my thigh. I bite down hard, and he groans, his free hand gripping my ass, pulling me tighter against him.

“Liana—” His voice is a warning, a plea, but I don’t care.

“Shut up.” I bite his neck again, this time hard enough to leave a mark. His skin is warm, salty, and I want to brand him with my teeth, my anger, my fucking need. His hands are shaking—not from hesitation, but from the effort of holding back. I can feel it in the way his muscles coil, the way his breath comes in sharp bursts. He wants to flip me, to take control, but he won’t. Not yet. Not while I’m like this.

I sit up, just enough to give myself room. My fingers go to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He doesn’t help me, but he doesn’t stop me either. The metal clinks, the sound loud in the confined space, and then I’ve got his zipper down, his cock springing free. Thick, heavy, already weeping at the tip. I wrap my hand around him, stroking once, twice, before I line him up with my entrance.

“You’re mine right now,” I tell him, my voice a growl. “And you’re going to fucking take what I give you.”