I cage her in without thinking, blocking out the rest of the world. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I snap at Everett without looking at him.
His smirk deepens. “Nope.”
I ignore him. Or try to. Holly tilts her head, her chin lifting like she’s daring me to say something. I lean in slowly—too slow—and my nose tucks just beneath her ear. My eyelids drift shut as I take a slow, deliberate inhale. Ah, there it is again—cake, smooth and decadent, drizzled with something rich enough to drown in.
White chocolate, maybe—not too sweet on its own, but drizzled with something sinfully sweet that’s all show, it becomes a slow seduction in liquid form—pure temptation.
A total masterclass in edging—delivered by dessert.
There are helplines for this, soldier. Abort.
But I don’t.
Can’t.
I drag the tip of my nose along the shell of her ear, rewarded by the jagged hitch of her breath—soft and fragile.
Don’t tell her that, though. Holly doesn’t do fragile. Not for anyone. Not even me.
The foreign rumble stirring in my throat—low, rough, and far too telling—only exists because she does.
Her pulse flutters against my jaw, a delicate new rhythm, like her body knows something her brain refuses to admit.
And then—just for one brain-melting second—she leans in. Barely. Just enough to make me forget Nick’s eyes are drilling into me from somewhere nearby.
A puff of breath escapes her lips into the intimate space between us, carrying the faintest hint of something chocolate—sweet and dark, with just enough bite to know it’s got a proof rating… all conspiring to drive me over the edge.
“Chance, you don’t have?—”
I steal whatever she intended to say with the brush of my lips along the corner of her mouth. Slow, deliberate—because I’m a masochist, and I need to know how far I can take this before I lose my mind. It’s nothing. A fraction of a second. Imperceptible to the crowd.
But for us—for the two of us—it’s everything. Pivotal. Profound. Shattering the paths we’ve paved, and while we’re reeling, pulling us toward something entirely new.
Staggering from whatever just punched me straight through the chest, I honor tradition and kiss her. Keeping it controlled, chaste, enough to pass for nothing more than a harmless gesture and just long enough to satisfy the crowd.
Not nearly enough to satisfy me.
“Tradition’s tradition, Squirt,” I murmur, my voice steadier than it has any right to be with a storm raging inside of me.
Holly blinks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes wide—looking like I just knocked her off center.
Oh, she won’t like that part. Not one bit.
Join the fucking club.
The haze possessing us fades away when the crowd bursts into cheers.
Clearing her throat, she narrows those sharp eyes and tilts up her chin—untouchable, defiant—pulling off a record recovery. “Don’t look so smug. I give it a five.”
Biggest lie she’s ever told. And we both know it.
I ignore the tremor in my hand as I snag a whiskey from Cleo.
Act normal.
Just head back to your best bro and pretend you don’t want to drag his baby sister somewhere dark and quiet and lose your goddamn mind between her thighs.
The ones haunting me since I woke up with them wrapped around my ears.
