Chapter 5: Command

I ran her hand under the cold tap for ten minutes.

Neither of us said a word.

I'd wanted her to say stop.

I had stood there with the skillet between us and prayed for one cracked syllable.

One flinch would have done it, anything that proved she was sorry for something.

She'd held on to the iron until I told her to let go.

I turned off the water and dried her palm with a clean cloth, barely touching.

I smeared burn gel across the blister and wrapped it in gauze.

She watched my hands the whole time.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"I don't feel pain the way you do."

"Liar."

Her mouth twitched.

It was the smallest thing, the corner of her lip, but I'd seen it once in a boardroom and a hundred times in a garage.

I let go of her wrist.

I was thirty years old.

She was thirty-one, standing in my kitchen in a gray T-shirt with her hand bandaged.

She was the most beautiful person I had ever wanted to hurt.

I'd hated her for four years.

I hadn't known you could hate someone and want to put your mouth on them at the same time.

"Eleven," I said.

"Yes, Wynn."

"Kiss me."

Her breath caught.

It wasn't in any script.

She took one step and stopped with her lips an inch from mine.

"Wynn," she said, very low. "Say it again."

"Kiss me."

She kissed me like a woman who had been told she could.

It was hot and clumsy and it tasted of mint toothpaste and salt.

Her good hand came up and gripped the back of my neck.

I shoved her back against the counter.

She went easily, with a soft hungry noise that hit me low in the stomach.

I got my hands under the T-shirt and found skin.

She had a pulse everywhere, hammering under my palms, and she wasn't pretending anymore.

I pulled back.

"Take it off," I said.

She stripped the shirt over her head and dropped it.

She wore nothing under it.

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