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“I have standards.” “You have delusions.”
“You’re very annoying,” I breathe against his mouth. He grins, and it’s feral. “You’re hot when you’re bossy.” I yank his head back by the hair. “You’re hot when you shut up.”
“You’re not even getting anything out of this,” I pant, breath catching as he curls his fingers just right. Holden leans in close, voice gravelly and smug. “I get to feel you fall apart on my fingers, baby. That’s everything.”
I groan. “You’re disgusting.” “You’re obsessed with me.”
The ride home is quiet. Not awkward quiet, just . . . still. Like the calm that comes after a summer storm, when the air is thick and the ground is steaming and everything feels a little too bright.
His hand is close. Closer than it needs to be, but I prefer it that way.
As long as he’s there, arguing beside me, I think I’ll survive.
