She stared into my eyes, studying me. “In that case, I’m glad you left.”
“What?”
“I’m glad because if you didn’t, maybe you’d never have…”
“Been brave enough to admit it?”
She nodded.
My fingers clenched on the straps, begging to release so I could cup her cheek.
But then, I looked up.
And there he was.
David.
And all my tenderness vanished beneath seething temper.
Arms crossed, lips thin, eyes narrowed as he glared at me from the front door. He judged me in ways I’d already judged myself.
Paedophile.
Sick fuck.
Blasphemer.
It didn’t help that I agreed with him.
The urge to hit him all over again thrummed in my fists. Della noticed my quaking, turning to look over her shoulder. But as she twisted against me, I remembered what I’d promised her last night.
A hug.
A declaration.
A vow to this new direction.
She wanted me to accept this. Us. Well, I wanted to make him pay.
My fingers released the straps and, as the clunking sound of a survival-filled bag tumbled to the pavement, I reached for her in ways I’d never reached before.
My arms latched around her, holding her deep against me, forcing her to inhale me, feel me, accept me as my boots nudged against hers, and I hugged her so damn hard.
She made a noise of surprise as I deliberately slipped one hand to the back of her head and one to the bottom of her spine. Once I had such a dominating grip on her, I splayed my fingers through her hair, fisted the ponytail dancing down her back, and spread my touch along the top of her ass. In one seamless move, I pulled her hair down to tip her head up and pressed her hips shamelessly into mine.
She gasped as I held her prone and helpless, but I didn’t kiss her.
I captured her in ways I ought to go to hell for.
And I looked up toward the man watching my every move. The man who’d had what I never could. And I let go of everything decent as I waited for him to understand he’d never have her again.
Not a single touch.
Not another anything.
This wasn’t about me.
This was about some caveman insanity driving me to stake ownership in absolutely terrible ways.
My fingers tightened in her hair, fighting off the whispers that this was wrong, ignoring the man I truly was—the man who would never lay a hand on Della this way.
But then David’s eyes flared with surprise and darkened with rage, and nasty triumph spread devil-hot blood through my veins.
I couldn’t stop myself.
After all, I was only doing what Della had asked me to do. To lay claim on her. To prove, once and for all, that I was hers. What a shame that I lost sight of that and used a moment that ought to be pure as a weapon to destroy my competition.
And once David was fully aware how Della melted in my arms, submitted to my harsh hold, and feathered her breath with lust, I ignored him and looked down into the blue, blue gaze of my Little Ribbon.
She trembled hard, her chest panting, her gaze wild.
Images of her, young and innocent, tried to delete the pinpricked red cheeks and sinful invitation.
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes from the messy double imagery. I focused only on one Della. The one I held. The one who begged me to finish what I started.
And then, I kissed her.
Right there.
In public.
Where anyone could see.
And something brittle shattered between us.
Something that wasn’t wholesome but filthy and twisted and held shades of black and grey and red, red desire all wrapped up in punishment.
I was punishing her for making me need her this way.
And she was punishing me for making her wait so damn long.
The kiss started with a crush of lips and bruise of mouths, but it quickly turned from explosive to desperate.
My fist yanked down on her hair, forcing her mouth open as I struggled to hide that violent side of me.
She groaned long and low as I kissed her deep and dark, full of disgust for what I’d done and drowning with desire for what I needed.
My body tightened, tingled, tangled, and my mind went from a single thought to crazed with memories of threading my fingers through Della’s hair in simpler times. Of brushing back curls as she slept as a four-year-old. Of wiping away sweat as she battled chicken pox as a seven-year-old.
And fuck, I was appalled with myself.
I pushed her away.
I wiped my mouth.
I picked up her backpack, forgotten on the street, and shoved it into her arms.
She stumbled, blinking back passion, dazed with being taken, and licked her lips as worry and fascination and that strange light I didn’t like assessed me as if she didn’t know me but very much wanted to.
“What was that?” she breathed, stepping toward me, forcing me to trip back.