He's bold  —  bolder than she'd given him credit for, because she doesn't have time to react to the hand on her neck, the quick lean, or the words coming off his tongue before his mouth closes over hers. She bristles, shoulder tightening defensively around that hand on her sensitive skin, and flattens her palms against his collarbone.

"Tommy."

Desperation mingles with surprise. She doesn't push him so much as pull back, like he's burned her, breath caught in her throat. And as much as she wants to reject him totally, the fear — you only kiss the men you kill — wars with the memory of the last time she was kissed. The last time she was touched. It's been the better part of a year, and even as brief as the contact was, it's still left her dazed.



It's a moment before she pulls her body away from his, eyes opening, gaze fixedly on the ground.





"You should go."