Chapter 7: Your Rule

I texted the number that had sent me three messages in a morning.

Where do you live?

He answered with an address above a hardware store and nothing else.

I took the last bus.

He opened the door in a gray T-shirt and old jeans, barefoot, and the apartment behind him was bare except for books and a lamp.

"You handed my sister an envelope," I said.

He didn't move out of the doorway.

"Come in."

"Not until you tell me what's in it."

"I can't tell you yet."

"You can't," I said. "You work for the people who just paid her to hit me."

"I resigned."

"They refused it."

"I know."

"Then you're still on their payroll," I said, and stepped across the threshold. "Which is a pity, because that was my rule."

I shut the door behind me.

He stood very still, and his eyes went to my mouth and came back up.

"Cora. Your rule."

"I made it."

"Then keep it."

"Say you don't want me, and I'll go."

He didn't say it.

A muscle moved in his jaw, and his hands stayed at his sides, fisted.

"I won't be the reason you regret something," he said.

"I regret eighteen years of manners," I said. "I don't think I'll regret you."

I took his shirt in both hands and pulled.

His mouth was on mine before the fabric finished creasing, hot and unsteady, and he backed me into the door so hard the lamp rattled.

"Your rule," he said against my lips.

"I know."

"You said no touching."

"Then stop touching," I said, and dragged his shirt over his head.

He had a scar low on his ribs and another across his shoulder, and I put my mouth on the first one.

He swore, low, and lifted me against the door with his hands under my thighs.

I wrapped my legs around his hips and felt how hard he was through two layers of denim.

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