“Don’t follow me.”
Next, I’m weaving between tables, bodies.
I don’t check behind me to see if he’s following.
He’d be a fucking idiot not to listen.
The second I shove through the terrace doors, November wraps her hands around my throat and tells me to calm the fuck down. Steam curls off rooftops, exhaling the day, and traffic veins pulse across bridges.
In the distance,
the Hudson broods, black and swollen.
My eyes close, cold winds piercing through my dress, and I inhale deep to the muffled heartbeat of the city.
Then a hand wraps around my wrist.
And I’m yanked sideways,
spun around,
slammed up against the cold building.
The breath I just fought for is ripped from my lungs when our eyes lock.
Andrew’s standing over me,
chest heaving like he sprinted.
Eyes midnight
and burning
and absolutely fucking wild.
They’re staring like I slashed open his chest,
forcing him to feel something he didn’t ask for.
Like I’m the reason his hands are shaking.
Good. Now he knows how I’ve been feeling.
His arms cage me in,
palms slamming flat beside my head.
His scent floods me?—
bourbon-soaked and maddening.
His jaw’s clenching,
like he’s about to rip me apart with words,
or fuck me against this wall.
A cough slices the air from feet many away,
