Across The Line. Amy Lee Burgess

      “Please get in the car.” Murphy guided the BMW next to me and kept pace with my stride. I ignored him. After I blinked rain out of my eyes, I shielded them with my hand so I could look down the road for a street sign. Anything that would tell me how far away I was from Dublin. I cursed. I had no money. No purse. Where was I supposed to go? I was damned if I’d go to the apartment. Maybe I could call Fee. She might lend me some money for a hotel. Only she’d want to know what was wrong between me and Murphy and screw that.

      “Stanzie.” Murphy tried again, but I didn’t look at him. He’d pulled across two lanes of oncoming traffic so he could throw me out of the car. Just because he hadn’t actually gone through the throwing me out part didn’t excuse any of it. The only person in the world I’d felt safe driving with, and now I couldn’t trust him anymore.

      Did that sign say ten miles or kilometers? Jesus, everyone in the pack talked miles but the street signs were in kilometers and I couldn’t figure distances out. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy? What was the difference between ten miles and ten kilometers? Whatever it was, it was too goddamn far to walk. At least to Dublin. In the rain. Maybe there was some fucking little town or something. Anything.

      “Please,” Murphy begged.

      “Aren’t you going to yell at me? Scream at me to get into the car?” I glared at him. That was next. If kindness didn’t work, yelling might.

      “No,” he answered. “I know I scared you.”

      “You’re damn right, you did. You didn’t just scare me. You scared the shit out of me. You pulled across two. Fucking. Lanes. There were cars coming. It’s raining and you know I’m scared of driving, especially on the wrong side of the road. Do you have any fucking idea how pissed off I am?” I kicked one of his BMW’s damn tires. I hoped I left a mark. I kicked the side panel too. If I didn’t make a dent, I’d at least smear mud on his precious paint job.

      “We need to talk,” he said.

      “Not in the fucking car, we don’t. I think we’ve pretty effectively proved we suck at talking in the car.”

      “Okay. We won’t talk until we get home. I swear. You get in and I will drive silently and carefully. Please?”

      “You’re an asshole, Liam Murphy,” I told him.

      “I know. A very huge asshole. I know,” he agreed.

      “Don’t think I’ll forgive you just because you know you fucked up.” I wrenched open the damn door and flung myself into the passenger seat. “And don’t think I’m going to buckle my seatbelt. I’m fucking done doing things your way. I’m going do things my way for a change. No more seatbelts. No more waiting for you to finally remember I’m there. No more you telling me when I get to talk about Paddy and when I don’t and I’m not cleaning up after Fee or the baby. I’m not waiting to go out to eat until you want to. I’m not putting my life on hold so you can make everyone in the whole damn world feel better while I sit there alone. I don’t want to be your rock. You hear me, Liam Murphy? I don’t want to be your fucking rock!”

      “I bet you’d like to hit me with a really big one right about now though,” he said and it was either explode or laugh.

      I laughed.

      * * * *

      We didn’t get three feet through the apartment door before he had me on the floor, tearing at my clothes. I ripped at his too. He kicked the door shut with his foot while simultaneously slamming his cock deep inside me.

      I sank my teeth into his shoulder and he yanked my hair hard.

      “Are we playing rough?” he asked me.

      For an answer, I head butted him. “That’s for being a giant asshole.”

      When he gave one of my nipples a twist, I hissed in painful pleasure. We rolled over and over, smashed into the coffee table and knocked the lamp in the corner over. The crash of the bulb shattering was loud as hell.

      “We’re not rolling around in glass.” Murphy managed to lift me up while he was still buried inside me. I locked my legs around his waist and he staggered us over to one of the sofas. We crashed down and the springs gave a protesting wail.

      I scratched his back with my nails and he bit my lip until we both tasted my blood. It smeared across our faces as we kissed and he shifted so I straddled him on my knees as he sat upright.

      “I love you,” he said as he tongued one of my nipples. He sucked on it, sending a shooting burst of pleasure traced a line from my breast, down my stomach to my pussy.

      “I love you,” I told him. When he lifted his head, his eyes gleamed with tears he blinked away.

      “Say it again,” he begged. “Tell me again.”

      “I love you.” I cupped his face with my hands. Beneath my fingers, his cheeks were smooth and warm. When his wolf colored his eyes amber, my wolf reached for his through me. He pulled me down so he could kiss me and our lovemaking turned slow and gentle. His touch was reverent and lingering, his kisses a drug that pulled me into him, so my heart beat in time with his.

      He brushed his lips, feather light, across my bruised jaw and bleeding lip, whispered to me in Irish as we moved together in a slowly building rhythm until he drew his breath in with a hiss and said, “I’m gonna come, Stanzie. Come with me. Please, honey, now. Now.”

      A rush of energy, my soul to his, and I buried my face in his sticky warm throat as the orgasm rocked through me. God, I loved this infuriating man.