"You don't care," she snarled. "This isn't what caring looks like, Astrid. This is controlling and twisted and you - you don't get a say in it." She slammed the glass down on the bookshelf and glared at Astrid a minute longer, and - she wanted to do something to stop her but hitting Astrid still felt like hitting a kitten even it it was a devious false bitchy little kitten.
So Stephie turned and spun away and stomped back into the kitchen, interrupted Miles in the middle of his conversation with some guy like he'd interrupted her with Josie, kissing him hard. She put all her want into it, because she wanted this she wanted this and no one else in the fucking world understood, no one else in the fucking world wanted her to do it, but it was her choice, wasn't it? It was her body, her mouth, her agency.
"Fuck me," she growled in his ear, her teeth on his lobe. "Take me to your room and fuck me."
Miles was staggered by the cosmic punch of her, the gripping need and the force of her kiss and - shit, she was crazy. She was crazy and pressed against him and biting his ear and like hell he was going to turn this down. He slid his hands up around her throat and pushed against her neck, not so hard, just enough to feel her flare up with that need, that furious survival that was as intoxicating as any whiskey, feel her pulse straining under his fingers. "Yes," he said, pulling her backward toward his room, pushing her inside. She shoved him hard up against the door, slamming it closed with his back and kissed him, deeply.