Her implication—that he and his father were somehow lousy role models for her son—grated. Added to the heat and tension that swirled in the air every time he and Cassie got together, it was more than Cole could take. He was overcome by a need to do something about it, to rattle her so badly she would lose that distant, disdainful expression.
Before he could consider the ramifications, he reached out and hauled her into his lap and settled his mouth over hers, muffling her gasp of protest.
She tasted of cinnamon and maybe a lingering hint of mint. Her lips were as soft as he’d remembered, if not nearly as willing as they had been even the other day at the picnic. She struggled in his arms, bit down on his lower lip. He winced at the taste of blood, became more determined than ever to tame her, to remind her of the way she had once melted in his arms.
He framed her face with his hands, looked long and deep into her flashing eyes, waited for the anger to die, then slanted his mouth over hers once more.
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