“You shouldn’t have done that.” He licks his lips, grinning devilishly. “Slap me.”

I swallow hard. “Why?”

“Because now I know how deep I’ve gotten under your skin. Just like the tattoo you were so scared of getting. Inked permanently. Not to be removed or lasered off.”

He grabs me by the throat with scary selfishness and kisses me. Hard.

My body is a series of volcanoes, blowing off one after the other. My spine, an endless row of dominos that fall piece by piece until my legs buck. Everything is hot and desperate and raw. His fingers curl around my neck, drawing me closer. My lips slam against his with a pained grunt. His tongue pries them open, not asking—demanding—to get inside. The fool that I am, I yield. His body is flushed with mine. I feel him everywhere. Down to my toes. He scrapes the inside of my mouth with his teeth, skimming the line between pleasure and pain. Marking me, making my lips deliberately swollen.

We kiss with such passion I feel like we’re both about to combust. But he tastes wrong. Not like that night in Spain. Like anger and vengeance and hate. Like everything I feel toward myself for not being proactive about starting to fix the mess also known as my so-called life.

I push him away. “No!”

Even though I did the pushing, I’m also the one who stumbles backward from the impact. I clap my hand over my mouth. “Holy shit, what have we done?”

Joe drops his head back, face tilted at the ceiling. He looks fed up, and I can’t blame him.

“Kissed. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”

“Stop being a smart-ass. But I—”

“Let me guess, regret it? I’m noticing a theme here.”

“How can you be so blasé?”

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the room. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your precious boyfriend. Sorry, fiancé. Just another secret to toss into Pandora’s box. Well, well. This marriage is going to have quite the turbulent start. I’ll save you all my prayers.”

Another reference I don’t miss. He remembers my favorite song in the whole wide world. Dom doesn’t. In fact, Dom and I never discuss music.

“Don’t be a hypocrite. It wasn’t me who said we shouldn’t tell him about what happened six years ago.” I hate myself for continuously making mistakes when it comes to this man. My self-control is in the toilet where he is concerned.

Joe chuckles darkly. “Whatever you say, Lynne.”

“Don’t Lynne me. What we did to Dom right now was horrible.”

“Drop the guilt-fest.” Joe shoves his feet into his sneakers. He is going to see Presley. There’s nothing I can do to stop him. “No one’s buying it. And even if I did—I don’t feel guilty about kissing you.”