“Jack, I think we should discuss—”
He stops her with his mouth, tasting of rum and pent desire as he draws her into shadow.
“You thought I loved him?” He’s a wormwood-bitter mimic.
“What else could I say?”
“Is the truth so impossible?”
“You know it is.”
His eyes are dark and treacherous seas; she fears she’ll be wrecked by their storms as he traces a tempest’s path from jaw to throat to breast. “Coward,” he breathes against her skin, thieving fingers pilfering her resolve.
When she kisses him, hot and wanting, she dares not call him ‘liar’.