The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 482

Mia's POV

"My stupid what?"

"Face." I'm glaring at him now. Or trying to. It's hard to glare when the world won't stay still. "Your stupid face. I hate your face."

Something flickers across that stupid face. Almost a smile. Almost.

"You hate my face."

"Yes." I push at his chest. Both hands. All my strength.

He doesn't move. Not an inch. It's like pushing at a wall. A warm, breathing, cologne-scented wall. My palms flatten against the fabric of his coat, and underneath—underneath I can feel the heat of him bleeding through. The solid plane of muscle. The steady rhythm of something that might be his heartbeat, or might be mine, or might be the bass still echoing in my blood.

"I hate it," I say again. Weaker this time. "I hate—"

"Careful—"

My heel catches on something. A crack. A pebble. The earth itself betraying me. The world tips sideways, gravity suddenly remembering I exist, and I'm falling—Loss of control in slow motion. The streetlight streaking across my vision like a comet. The cold air rushing past my bare shoulders. The distant thought that this is going to hurt, this is going to—

Kyle's arms tighten.

Yank me back against him.

Hard.

My cheek collides with his collarbone. My hands fist in his coat—grabbing, clutching, holding on like he's the only solid thing left in a liquid world. The night spins around us like a carousel gone wrong, his cologne filling my lungs, his body pressed against mine from chest to thigh, and then—

Stillness.

His heart against my ear. Pounding. Not so calm after all.

My fingers are twisted in his lapels. I can feel the weave of the fabric against my knuckles—expensive, soft, probably worth more than my monthly car payment. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, each breath shifting me slightly, rocking me like a boat on gentle waves. The heat of him seeps through his clothes, through mine, pooling in all the places where we touch.

"Mia." His voice is rough now. Rougher than before. The words vibrate through his chest, into my bones. "Will you stop trying to—"

"Let go of me."

"No."

"Kyle—"

"You'll fall."

"I won't—"

"You just did." His arms are steel bands around me. Unbreakable. I can feel every finger pressing into my back—five points of contact on one side, five on the other, like he's mapping me through the thin fabric of Sophie's dress. "You just literally fell. Three seconds ago. While standing still."

"I was pushed."

"By what?"

"The ground."

"The ground pushed you."

"It's a very aggressive ground." I try to pull back again. Manage about two inches before his arms tighten further—a flex of muscle I feel everywhere, a reminder of how easily he could hold me here forever if he wanted to. "Kyle. Let me—"

"No."

"I'm fine—"

"You're drunk."

"I'm not—" The word gets tangled. "—I'm not that drunk."

"You just told me the ground attacked you."

"It did attack me. It has a vendetta. It's been planning this for—"

"Mia."

"What?"

His hand slides up my back. Slow. Deliberate. I feel every inch of the journey—the pressure of his palm between my shoulder blades, the drag of fabric against my skin, the way my spine arches involuntarily into his touch like my body has forgotten we're fighting. His fingers reach the nape of my neck. Pause there. Then slide into my hair, tangling in the strands, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to look at him.

His eyes are thunderstorm gray in the streetlight. His jaw is tight—that muscle twitching, once, twice. His mouth is—

His mouth is right there.

Close enough that I can see the slight chap on his bottom lip. Close enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek—warm, soft, smelling faintly of the coffee he probably had while waiting for me to text. Close enough that if I tilted forward, just a centimeter, just a fraction—

"Stop," he says quietly, "trying to push me away."

"I'm not—"

"You are." His thumb traces my jaw. Featherlight. Following the line of bone from my chin to my ear. My skin prickles in the wake of his touch—goosebumps rising despite the warmth of him everywhere else. "You've been doing it for four years. And I let you. Because I thought that's what you needed. Space. Distance. Time."

"I did need that."

"Sorry doesn't fix it."

"I know."

"Stop saying you know!" I hit his chest. Actually hit it. My fist lands somewhere around his heart—that heart I can still feel beating, fast now, faster than before, giving lie to all his careful calm. "Stop being so—so understanding—so patient—I want you to fight back—"

"You want me to fight back?"

"Yes!"

"Okay." His hand tightens in my hair. Not painful. Just—present. Undeniable. A pressure that sends sparks down my spine, that makes my breath catch, that reminds me exactly how long it's been since anyone touched me like this. "You want a fight? Here's a fight. You're at a club at midnight with three men whose job is to make you feel beautiful. You're wearing a dress that's been making me insane since I saw it on Sophie's I*******m. And you're standing here telling me I have no right to you while your entire body is pressed against mine."

I become aware of it all at once. The way I've stopped pushing. The way I've started leaning. My hips against his hips. My chest against his chest. The thin barrier of silk and cotton and wool doing absolutely nothing to hide the way my body is responding to him—the tightness, the heat, the involuntary arch of my back that presses me closer still.

"That's—" I try to step back. Can't. My legs won't cooperate. "—that's not—"

"That's not what?" He's closer now. Or I'm closer. Someone is closer. "You want to push me away, Mia? Fine. Push. Actually push. Mean it."

I try. I do try. My hands flatten against his chest again. My arms tense. My body prepares to shove—

But instead of pushing, my fingers curl. Grip the fabric of his shirt through his open coat. Hold on.

"I can't," I whisper.

"Why not?"

"Because—" The tears are back. Slipping down my cheeks, catching the streetlight like tiny diamonds. "—because my hands won't listen. Because nothing will listen. Because you're so warm and you smell so good and I've been so cold, Kyle, I've been so cold for four years and I didn't even realize it until right now—"

"Mia—"

"You ruined it." I'm crying for real now. The words pouring out of me like the tears, unstoppable, inevitable. "You showed up in your stupid coat and you ruined it."

"I ruined your fun?"

"You ruined everything." My voice cracks on the last word. Shatters. "You always ruin everything. You ruined my wedding night by being perfect. You ruined my divorce by being sick. You ruined my four years of moving on by coming back. And now you're ruining my club night by—by—"

"By what?"

"By being here!" It comes out as a wail. A sound I didn't know I was capable of making. "By looking at me like that! By caring whether I'm safe! By making me feel things I don't want to feel! By—"

My stomach lurches.

The words stop.