“Your father hasn’t been keeping what’s his safe.” Another stroke, this one closer to her jawline. “That’s his mistake—one I won’t be making as well. His name, Callista.”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. She had to get a handle on this now. She’d never considered herself one to crack under pressure, but this man put his hands on her and spoke in that quiet, confident way that promised violence to anyone who touched her, and she was dangerously close to losing control. Which kind of control was up for grabs, so she went with the least likely to reveal her secret.
She kissed him, her heels giving her enough height that she barely had to go up on her toes. Her lips brushed his, and for one interminable second she was sure neither of them took a breath.
Then his arms were around her, and he took the last step to bring their chests flush together and her back against the wall. Even knowing she should be panicking at being pinned, she slipped her arms around his neck and traced the seam of his lips with her tongue.
That was all it took.
He let go of her throat to cup the back of her head, and then she was in the middle of the single most devastating kiss of her life. His tongue stroked hers, claiming her mouth—her body—as his own. His hands stayed in place even as he continued the assault on her mouth, his touch headier than the nicotine. She arched against him, tilting her head to allow him better access, and he growled in approval.
Whatever she’d expected from this kiss, it certainly hadn’t been desire. Though desire was too tame a word. She’d felt desire before, and this wasn’t it. This was…need. All-consuming need that devoured everything in its path, leaving only destruction in its wake.
Teague couldn’t get enough of her. He should back off, should let her know he recognized her kiss for the distraction ploy it was, should get back to figuring out who the fuck put their hands on her. But he couldn’t think beyond the way she softened against him and how unbelievably good she tasted.
He allowed himself to skate a hand up her side and run his thumb along the underside of her breast. Holy shit. There was nothing between them but a thin layer of fabric. She moaned, so he moved up a little more, circling her nipple, and giving a moan of his own when her entire body quaked.
This was the woman his father demanded he marry?
Christ, if he only knew, he’d take this away from Teague just like he had every other thing of value. The thought should have been a sobering one, but he was too far gone.
Somewhere to the left of them, a male throat cleared.
He tore away from her at the same time she shoved him, but Teague had only moved to stand in front of her, putting himself between her and whoever had just entered the alley. He took in the man with a single look—tall, big-ass shoulders, and black. That suit was most definitely hiding a gun in a shoulder holster, and he probably had at least one more on his person.
Callista pushed past him, shooting him a look. “Micah.”
The man—Micah—crossed his arms over his massive chest. “They’re looking for you, Callie. And I guess they’re looking for you, too.”
“Then we’d best get back.” Callista snatched the scarf out of Teague’s hands and wrapped it around her throat once more, hiding the marks.
It was like being doused in a bucket of cold water. She’d played him, and he’d been only too happy to go for it. Teague cursed himself as they disappeared into the building. He paced the alley, his desire for the woman dwindling as memories assaulted him.
Yeah, he’d seen those marks before. He’d been young—maybe six or seven—the first and only time his father put his hands on his mother. Teague wasn’t sure what the fight had even been about, but the image of Seamus’s hands around his mother’s neck wasn’t something he’d ever been able to forget.
Or the quiet words she’d managed to squeeze out. You put your hands on me again, and I’ll kill you in your sleep. His father had laughed it off, but he’d never touched her like that again. Even then, Teague had wanted to step in, to do something to help his mother, even if she so blatantly hadn’t needed it.
It didn’t matter what had happened in the past. He couldn’t change it any more than he could fly to the moon. But he sure as fuck wasn’t going to stand by while someone hurt his goddamn fiancée. He wasn’t sure when he’d decided to accept that he was getting married—maybe it was when she’d closed her eyes and leaned against the brick wall, letting that hint of vulnerability show—but he’d gone and done it.
Besides, it was blatantly clear that Callista Sheridan couldn’t protect herself, and her father wasn’t interested in trying. A woman like that…He closed his eyes and gave himself a full five seconds to remember how good she’d felt in his arms, readily responding to his every touch. Christ. A woman like that wasn’t meant to be squandered on pieces of shit like whoever had hurt her—or on Teague, for that matter. He had no illusions about being good enough for her, but he was too goddamn selfish to back off now.