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"I could be your favorite mistake, baby."
"I’m not the men who’ve come before me." My eyes travel up and down his body before settling back on his face, accessing the claim he's making. No, you most certainly aren't, little Mitchell. You're twice as lethal as all of them put together.
But true to his frustrating form, Hale stayed professional the entire time, even when I hit on him. Especially when I hit on him. Which I did. A lot.
"You wound me, Hale. I put in plenty of initiative at work." "In effort to hop on my dick doesn't count," he snaps, grabbing the glass of whiskey Harry must’ve finished pouring while I’ve been busy tossing words with Hale.
He's wearing glasses today, thick black rims that scream Clark Kent to me the more I look at them. And it does everything for him.
The fucking glasses get me every time
"You're wound way too fucking tight. You'll have a damn heart attack or a stroke before you hit thirty." "Then I'd appreciate you not poisoning what time I have left on Earth with your presence."
"Sweet motherfucking goddamn." His forehead lands on my shoulder as he pushes against my hand for more. "I will drop to my knees and beg you to put me outta my fucking misery. Please, Hale."
Hale: You're meant to be paying attention to the meeting, not eye-fucking me from across the table.
Me: Stop looking like a snack in a suit and maybe I'll stop eye-fucking you.
"Let me in," he urges as he pulls his hips back and gives a shallow thrust forward. "Relax for me, Rome."
"You taste so good," I murmur into his mouth before taking another greedy pull of his tongue. "Like whiskey and freedom and pure fucking sex."
"I prefer handsome, though I guess I should just take a compliment if it's coming from you." I'd scoff out a laugh if I could, but I'm too ensnared in him to do much else than give a low, breathy reply, "Beautiful. Handsome. Whatever. All you need to know is your body was built for mine."
"Well, we already know I terrify you. Do you still think I’m a mistake too?" I nod once, my hands roaming over his shoulders and ribs. "Yeah, Rome. You are. One of the few I've ever made. By far the best. Always my favorite. You're the one mistake I want to keep making over and over again, praying I never learn my lesson."
There's not a damn thing in the world I would trade for this moment. In fact, I think I'd be willing to give everything I've worked my entire life for in order to stay right here in this bed with him until I die.
"I can hear you thinking," he says softly, a small laugh to follow. "Loud enough I swear you're trying to solve the Flint water crisis or something."
That MI reference!
"I want you against me," I whisper. "I want to touch you. Always. Constantly. I want your skin on mine, my lips glued to yours. And I don't give a shit what I'd have to give up to make that happen."
"You're perfect," I tell him softly, a hand moving up to cup the back of his neck. I reel his mouth in again. One of the many things I can’t seem to get enough of when it comes to him. I mold it to mine, licking and nipping at his lips before whispering against them, "What are you doing to me, Rome? What the fuck have you done?"
"Slit my throat. Carve my heart out. Put it on your mantle or use it as a paperweight or crush it in your fist. I don’t care what happens to it because the only person I want to have it is you. Only you,"
