“Rafe.” Just my name, nothing more.
I close the distance between us until I can smell her shampoo, feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her breath hitches—a small, involuntary sound—when my fingers find the hollowof her throat. My thumb settles against her pulse point, feeling it flutter beneath my touch.
She tips her head back, exposing the long line of her neck.
There it is.
Her pupils blow wide. I watch it happen every time, fascinated. Like a switch flips somewhere deep and private behind her eyes.
“Baby,” I murmur.
Her hands press against my stomach, her fingers twitching as she spreads them wide. She doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t retreat. The night hums around us—crickets, distant traffic, the low murmur from inside—but the space between us seals shut, its own quiet pocket.
I bridge the gap between us until our lips are barely separated. It’d be too easy to move that last half-inch, claim her mouth. But this is where the chaos lives and breathes. The in-between moments of anticipation, where my blood pounds so hard inside my veins, it’s likely to start a riot.
It’s a dare. For me. For her.
Who’s going to be the one who can hold out the longest?
Metal rattles as someone hammers the half-open garage door three times. “Stop wasting time. Let’s fucking go.”
Her breath hitches against my mouth, warm and coffee-sweet. Her fingers curl into my shirt.
“I’m going to kill him,” I whisper, close enough that my lips graze hers with each word.
The corner of her mouth quirks up. When she speaks, our lips catch—not quite a kiss, just friction and heat. “Forty-eight hours, Calloway.”
My thumb traces her pulse point one last time, feeling it race beneath my touch.
Bishop's fist connects with the door again. “Rafe. Now.”
My hands drop to my sides. She steps back, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear again, eyes still dark.
I follow her into the garage.
The air buzzes with movement. Cruz's hands slice through the air, half a donut clutched between his thumb and index finger, punctuating whatever point he's making with invisible diagrams. Beck hunches over his laptop, the blue glow painting his face ghostly as lines of code reflect in his glasses. Lola's sneaker taps against the concrete floor, her chin tilted toward Cruz but her eyes tracking Bellamy's entrance.
Bellamy flips open a donut box. Gage materializes beside her, his shoulder bumping hers as he reaches past. When he brushes his lips across her hair, she doesn't stiffen or check who's watching. Just tips her head back, laughs at something he whispers. His fingers linger at the small of her back, comfortable as an old habit. She leans into it, the space between them nonexistent.
I wonder what my brother would think if he knew how often I thought about being buried between her thighs. How I relived the memory with my hand wrapped around my cock every night, her name a prayer between clenched teeth.
“All right. We don’t have time for pleasantries tonight. Let’s go over everything one more time,” Bishop snaps.
My brother’s voice snaps me back to reality, but the ghost of her taste lingers on my tongue.
Everyone straightens and crowds around the worktable, except Beck, who stays perched by the open laptop.
“What about Coco?” Bellamy asks, her gaze sliding to Bishop as she settles at the other end of the table.
Bishop waves his hand in the air. “She’ll be here later. Let’s start from the beginning: the construction stop.”
Cruz steps toward the whiteboard propped up against one of the workbenches along the side wall. There’s a basic map drawn with little x’s marking the areas we need to remember.
“Beck and I will get here at nine,” Cruz says, pointing to the first x. “We’ll set up the road closure signage and start the process.”
“Approximately five to seven minutes after the armored truck gets through the construction stop, Gage, Bishop, and I will take the truck.” I fold my arms across my chest, nodding at the whiteboard.
“Where?” Bishop asks, a bite to his question.
