Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
I smirk, but it’s all teeth, no softness. “Don’t tempt me, witch.”
Before she can answer, I turn and push through the crowd, the warm press of bodies and music swallowing me. I can feel her eyes on my back. I can feel the electricity in the air like a live wire. I step into the cool night and the wind slaps the skin on my neck raw.
I don’t look back until I reach my truck. When I do, she’s at the door with Winter and Zane, hair messy, a laugh breaking the dark like a little bell.
I pull my beanie down, climb in, and start the engine. Watching men smile at my girl would be murder and I’m not in the habit of becoming a killer for the best reasons and the worst.
I wipe my fingers on my jeans, smirk stuck to my face like a bruise, and think, not for the first time, of how many men would need to be taught a lesson before she could live in peace.
If that’s what it takes, then consider the town warned.
But I don’t want war. Not really. I want her.
And I’ll make sure every man in Devil’s Peak knows exactly what he’s up against.
A moment later she’s climbing into the cab of my truck. The ride back to my place is silent, heat pulsing in the air as we travel the few miles home. I pull into the circle driveway and park, moving around the front of the truck to open her door. I help her down without words, my hand resting at her back as we climb the steps of the lodge. Once we enter, I kick off my boots and turn to take her in.
Aspen stands there watching me, breathing hard.
Not scared but soft. Open. Flushed.
That look again.
The one she shouldn’t have given me.
The room goes quiet. Heavy.
She breaks it with a whisper. “I can’t believe how utterly unbearable you are some days.”
My throat goes tight. Shit.
Her eyes hold mine. Raw. Too close.
I say nothing.
She steps closer until she’s in front of me. Close enough to breathe me in. Close enough to ruin every wall I’ve built since the day my sister died and I walked away from a world I didn’t want to belong to anymore.
“Say something,” she whispers.
“No.”
Her brows knit. “Why not?”
“Because if I do, I’ll touch you.”
Her breath stops.
Her cheeks flush.
And she whispers—God help me—“So do it.”
Fuck.
My control shreds like old rope.
I reach for her, hauling her close by the waist—but I stop with her body flush to mine, barely holding myself back from pinning her to the nearest surface.
“No,” I rasp. “Not yet.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Not like this.”
She frowns. “I don’t underst—”
“I’m not taking your mouth because fear spiked your pulse,” I growl. “I’ll take it when you beg me for it. When you’re shaking because you need me. When you look at me like I’m not a mistake you’re about to regret.”
Her lips part.
Her eyes heat.
Her voice trembles. “And what if I already do?”
She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. She can’t.
But her hands slide up my chest anyway—slow, cautious, teasing the line between safe and fucked—and my self-control goes razor thin.
I stare down at her mouth, fighting the urge to bite. Claim. Mark.
“You really want this war, Aspen?”
She rises on her toes, lips a breath from mine. “I’m not scared of war.”
My chest rumbles. “Then get ready to lose.”
Her smile is pure sin. “Ladies first.”
Jesus Christ.
I need to get space. Now. Before I do something I can’t take back.
I step away—rough, fast. Like pulling teeth out of my own ribs.
She stares, confused. “You’re walking away?”
I don’t turn. “Before I throw you over that table and make decisions for both of us.”
Silence.
Then—voice low, threaded with pure trouble—“Who says I don’t want you to?”
I stop walking.
Every muscle locks.
I look back.
Her head is tilted. Hands behind her back. Lip caught between teeth. Watching me like a dare.
I stalk toward her again—slow. Heavy. Predatory. She doesn’t run.
“You keep pushing,” I warn.
“Maybe you like it,” she whispers.
I crowd her against the table—no space, no escape—and murmur against her ear: “You think I need excuses to want you?”
She trembles. “No.”
“Good.” My voice drops lethal. “Then stop giving me reasons to hold back.”
Her breath shudders.
I step back again. Just enough to clear my head.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re infuriating.”
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re control-obsessed!”
“You’re climbing me like a tree every time trouble hits!”
She throws up her hands. “Maybe you’re just available real estate!”
Oh, that does it.
I stalk her again, voice a snarl. “Say that again.”
She pokes my chest. “You. Are. A. Mountain. Men climb mountains.”
I catch her wrist—fast. She gasps. “Men fall off cliffs too.”
Her pulse slams under my fingers.
She stares up at me. “I don’t fall easy.”
“Good,” I growl. “I don’t catch easy.”
Her pulse kicks harder.
We're both lying.
She doesn’t move when I step toward her. Maybe she thinks I’m bluffing. Maybe she doesn’t understand that whatever thin thread of control I had is gone. Maybe she does understand—and wants this as bad as I do.