He tore off his shirt, the buttons flying from the fabric to ping against the wall. He felt her eyes on his chest, the Virgin Mother and his own mother’s name. He felt her picking apart his secrets, gathering up sharp broken pieces of him and trying to put them back together. Just like he was doing with her, trying to pick apart her lies and her secrets to find the truth of her.

And they would keep on doing that if he didn’t stop it.

“Spread your legs,” he said. And she did without hesitation. Without fear. “Wider.”

She braced her heels on the bed and spread her legs as wide as she could. God. She’d totally shaved. She was bare and sweet between her legs.

“You shaved your pussy. For me.” He couldn’t help himself anymore—he reached out and touched her, ran his finger down the seam of her fat, soft lips. It came away wet. She wanted this just as much as he did. The reality of it was kerosene on a fire.

She jerked and groaned at his touch, gathering the bedspread in her fists. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I do like it. But you are going to love it,” he breathed, and then he got down on his knees beside the bed and pulled her by her hips to the edge. “Keep your legs apart,” he growled, and she snapped the leg back that had curled over his shoulder.

He licked her with the flat of his tongue, all along her lips, and she closed her eyes, her breath a ragged gasp. It was better if she didn’t watch. If he didn’t feel her eyes on him. He used his thumbs to part her, to stretch her wide, and she flinched, so he eased up. Until she moaned with pleasure again.

“Look at you,” he breathed, staring down at all that pink flesh. With the tip of his tongue he touched her clit, licked it, and rolled it. And then sucked it into his mouth. Hard. She shot up off the bed, her legs jerking, clasping his head between them.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he said, breathing all over her pussy. “Spread. Your. Legs.”

“I don’t like bossy men,” she groaned but did what he asked, and he felt like he had her all staked out for his pleasure. The only places they touched were his mouth, his fingers, and her pussy. And yet he felt that connection all through his body. Like they were skin to skin with not even air between them.

He teased her with that long, slow lick over and over again and he could feel her arching up toward him, searching for something solid to grind against.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

“I am.”

“More.”

He curled his tongue over her clit, barely touching it.

“Why…why are you being so far away?” she asked.

“Because you’re lying to me about something and I don’t mind getting used as long as I get to use you right back.”

She flinched at his words. The ugliness of them.

But then he slipped a finger down to her pussy, entering her just enough so she could feel it, and then he pulled back and slid his finger down from her pussy to her asshole, burning a trail against the slick flesh there.

“Dylan,” she sobbed, pushing against him. Wanting more. The fucking truth of her was that she would take everything he had. They could burn down his whole mountain with this fire between them.

And the knowledge sucked.

“This is what it’s like between two liars, baby,” he said, his finger rimming her pussy. “This is what you get.”

“I want more, please.”

“There is no more.”

“Don’t,” she breathed. “Don’t be like this.” She sat up, reaching for him, tears in her eyes, and he couldn’t fucking take it. He stepped back away from her, trying to get his breath. His bearings. The ragged, burning edges of his control kept slipping through his slick fingers.

He could smell her on him. On his fingers. His face. She would be all over his sheets when they were done.

He undid his pants, pushed his underwear down until his cock sprang free.

She reached for him, her eyes hotter than the fire that scarred him.

“No,” he said, an act of self-preservation if ever there’d been one. Her eyes flew to his. “Don’t touch me,” he said, and she dropped her hands.

He didn’t know if he was hurting her. Scaring her. If she’d tried to leave at this point, he would have let her. Part of him wanted to scare her enough that she would leave. Part of him wanted her to stand up and call him an asshole. Smack him. Because he deserved that. And she deserved to be pissed.

But this fucking hunger they had for each other kept them here, locked together in this tragedy.

She sat there, her hands in her lap.

Trusting him.

“Don’t,” he said, the word bursting out of him before he could stop it.

“Don’t what?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

He didn’t have just one answer, he had a thousand.

Silent, he took a condom off the bedside table and slid it on. He could barely touch himself he was so turned on. Whatever was going to happen between them right now was going to be fast and hard.

He felt angry and awful. Which, he figured, was how he should feel. Guilty and miserable.

“Roll over,” he told her.

“What?”

She was too slow, he was too wild, and he lifted her hips and rolled her himself, pulling her up onto her knees. He climbed onto the bed behind her and then held his cock, notching himself against her, slipping through her hot, wet pussy to get inside.

With a hiss, she pulled forward away from him and he stopped, lifting his hands away from her. But his cock was just inside of her. Waiting.

Carefully, she pushed back against him and then stopped.

Christ, he didn’t want to hurt her. He began to pull out but she reached around and grabbed his thigh, holding him still. “Don’t…” she whispered. “Don’t leave.”

“Jesus Christ, Annie, if it hurts, say it. If you don’t want this, say it.” Their secrets were making a mess of them; all their sharp, jagged edges were out, waiting to hurt each other.

“It…doesn’t hurt.”

“You want this?” he asked, because he wasn’t sure. She was wet and she was hot, but he wasn’t about to take something she didn’t want to give.

“Yes.”

“Say it, Annie. Just fucking say what you want.”

“I want you inside me.”

Her words lit him up but he didn’t push into her.

“Take me,” he said, and then watched as bit by bit she eased back on him.

Slowly he pushed forward until she had every inch of him.

“You ready?” he breathed, and she nodded. Her arms braced against the bed were shaking. His legs were. The bed was trembling under all their restraint.

Slowly he eased back and then forward. And she eased forward and then back and they found a terrible rhythm. Deep and then deeper each time, turning them inside out. He tried not to touch her, but his hands slid over her hips, holding onto her waist. The pressure built in him. A beautiful pressure. Pleasure and pain. Light and dark. Guilt and ecstasy. Grief and happiness.

He was close. Too close and unable to stop. He reached around her, slipping over her bare skin toward her clit, and she grabbed his hand in a grip that was surprisingly strong. Fierce. The rough and raw edges of her calluses and blisters brushed over his. She laced their fingers together.

And somehow that was more intimate than anything else.

Last time, he thought, letting himself absorb the intimacy. Like drinking all the water he could before heading out into the desert.

Last time. Last time.

“Come on,” he growled and shook off her hand, unable to take it. “Fuck. Come, baby.”

And she did. She exploded under him, crying out and falling down on the mattress. She pulled him down with her and he blanketed her. Covered her. And filled her.

Perfect.

The orgasm rocked him.

Crushed him.

And he lay there, heaving against her. Feeling her shake and tremble beneath him.

God, she was so small. He could feel the knobs of her spine against his stomach. The fragile bones of her rib cage against his arms. He could carry her in his pocket.