Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Look at me,” he said.
I did.
Whatever he saw decided something in him. His fingers slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, warm and big. He pulled me in just enough that if I wanted to, I could have tipped back out. I didn’t. I went willingly, like a tide rolling in.
Then he kissed me.
Heat unspooled from the center of me like someone had lit a fuse. It wasn’t the awkward, careful kissing of boys who are scared to want. It wasn’t the greedy, sloppy claiming I’d watched through a hundred party doorways and told myself I didn’t want. It was deep. It was sure. It was full. His mouth took and gave, his other hand bracing my hip, anchoring me against the cold air and the hot panic both.
I forgot Shay’s smirk and the slap and the roar inside the clubhouse. I forgot the girl I’d been ten minutes earlier and the one I was supposed to be tomorrow. The world narrowed to the shape of his mouth and the way my name would’ve sounded if he had said it right then.
When he lifted his head, my breath came in short, shocked bursts. He pressed his forehead to mine like a promise and let me hear his, steadier and slower, like he could absorb the chaos out of me by sheer will.
“Come with me,” he said, not a statement, not a question, maybe a request laced as a command.
I didn’t ask where. I didn’t need to. I nodded, because for the first time all night, nodding felt like knowing.
He laced our fingers but didn’t pull, waited for me to move first. I did. We crossed the lot together, walking to the back of the place, the hum of the party behind us like a tide going out. A couple of brothers outside smoking watched us go and didn’t say a word, but one of them—Disciple—touched two fingers to his temple in a salute that wasn’t for me and somehow felt like it was.
We stepped into the hallway that ran at the back of the building, quieter, the music thudding through walls like a heartbeat you could walk inside. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Old flyers curled on cork-board. The carpet was ugly and clean. It looked like the backstage of a life. This part of the building was clearly an addition as none of it matched the front.
He guided me down the hall passing rooms as we went before entering one of them. His door shut soft behind us, and the noise dropped to a hum.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
The party faded like a dream I’d already started to forget.
“Yes,” I said, and felt myself mean it all the way through.
The door clicked shut behind us, muffling the party into a low, distant heartbeat.
I stood in the center of his room, pulse racing, fingers clenched at my sides like I wasn’t sure what to do with them. The space wasn’t what I expected—bare walls, a dresser, a lamp with a crooked shade, the bedspread in simple dark sheets. No posters, no clutter, no trophies. Just clean, sturdy, unpretentious. A man’s room.
I felt his presence more than I saw him—broad, steady, filling the doorway. My skin prickled like the air itself knew who he was.
“Are you sure?” His voice was low, gravel sliding over steel.
I knew what he was asking, but I couldn’t get focused beyond the heat running through me. I turned to face him. My throat tightened, but I didn’t falter. “Yes.”
His eyes searched mine. Not lust—though it was there, burning. Something else. Concern. Patience. “IvaLeigh,” he said again, slower. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I repeated, firmer this time because I was more than ready to feel the heat of this passion between us. “I’m sure.”
Only then did he move.
The first kiss had been fire outside, fueled by jealousy and rage. This one was different. He crossed the room slow, deliberate, like every step was permission for me to step back. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
When his mouth touched mine again, it was gentler, coaxing. My lips parted, and the warmth of him flooded through me until I trembled. His hand cupped the back of my neck, thumb brushing slow circles against my skin.
“Still sure?” he murmured against my mouth.
“Yes,” I whispered, barely holding air.
Clothes came off piece by piece, not ripped, not rushed. Each button, each zipper, was a question. And every time, I answered with my hands tugging his shirt, with my eyes locking on his, with the steady rhythm of desire for more.
My heart pounded loud enough I was sure he could hear it. When I stood bare before him, heat flooded my face, shame and desire colliding. But his gaze—steady, reverent, hungry but not greedy—burned all the shame away.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, rough and certain.
The words made my knees weak.