The effect is instant—and catastrophic.
My heart jerks, then starts pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to break free. I don't even know what hits me harder—the filthy confidence of what he just did, or the way my body reacts to it, all heat and sparks and zero restraint.
I always thought I had self-control. Turns out, nope.
One look at Zach licking his fingers like that and I turn into a walking electrical storm.
I can't look away. His eyes are molten, hungry, and when he licks the last trace of me off his finger before flashing that crooked, sinful grin—it's game over. A shiver runs down my spine so hard I almost laugh.
He's daring me to match him, to be just as bold. But all I manage is a breathless giggle and a helpless bite of my lower lip, already addicted to the way he's looking at me.
God, I'm done for.
If he keeps looking at me like that—like I'm the only thing he wants to devour—I'm never going to survive this relationship. My brain's short-circuited, my knees feel like pudding, and I swear my soul just left my body to file a complaint forexcessive hotness.
He tilts his head, still smirking, and I just... melt. Into the wall, into the floor, into him—whatever's closest. Because there's no universe where I can think straight while Zach Westbrook stands there tasting me, grinning like he just discovered a new religion and it'sme.
And the worst part?
I love every goddamn second of it.
Zach finally steps back, his mouth curving into a self-satisfied smirk that makes me want to both slap him and pull him right back.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my gaze dropping to the very obvious bulge in his jeans. "Don't you want me to..." I gesture vaguely, cheeks flaming. "You know."
He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. "Tonight was about you," he murmurs against my skin. "Watching you fall apart was exactly what I needed." His eyes glint with mischief as he adds, "Consider it an investment in what I plan to collect later."
Dinner ends with me half-lying across Zach's lap, our empty takeout boxes stacked on the desk like trophies of our laziness.
He brought Thai food and I'm pretty sure I inhaled mine without tasting it, too distracted by the way his thumb kept tracing circles on my thigh while we ate.
Now we're curled up on my bed, the glow from my laptop flickering across the room as episode nine ofCriminal Mindsplays. Season three. The one where Garcia gets shot.
It's been years since we used to binge this show together, back when we still believed we could handle watching serial killers before bed without dreaming about them lurking in our closets.
Spoiler: we couldn't.
I'd wake up screaming, and Zach would pretend he wasn't terrified too.
"God," I mumble, propped against his chest. "Derek Morgan is literally the definition of a perfect man—chivalrous, rugged, hot, and so freaking protective of his 'baby girl.'" I sigh, full-on swooning.
Sometimes I wish I could take Penelope Garcia's place in those scenes. Like, shoot me in the leg or something just so he'll carry me out and call mebaby girltoo.
Zach snorts, eyes narrowing at the screen. "Seriously? You're swooning over him while I'm right here?"
I grin without looking away. "What? It's not my fault Derek Morgan's built like that. He's, like, the blueprint for hot FBI agents."
Zach scoffs, tightening his arm around me. "Please. I'm way cooler than that guy. I don't need a badge or a bulletproof vest to look good saving your ass."
I laugh so hard my shoulders shake. "Oh yeah? Because you totally screamed the last time we watched this. Remember? You thought someone was hiding behind my curtains."
His brows shoot up. "That was a jump scare! Anyone would've screamed!"
"Uh-huh," I tease, poking his chest. "Real tough, Westbrook. Derek Morgan could never."
"Real tough, huh?"
Before I can blink, his hands are at my sides, and I yelp as he starts tickling me.
