The second we step through the front door, the heat and noise hit me like a physical blow. The air is thick with the smell of spilled beer, sweat, and some cloyingly sweet vape flavor. Bodies are packed wall-to-wall, a writhing sea of students shouting over the music. My skin crawls.
“Okay, objective one: locate the target,” Chloe yells into my ear, a manic grin on her face. She’s enjoying this way too much.
I scan the living room, my eyes flicking past nameless jocks and the girls hanging off them. My gaze lands on a cluster of hockey players, their massive frames dwarfing everyone around them. They’re laughing, passing a bottle of whiskey between them. It’s a scene straight out of my personal nightmare.
And then I see him.
West Monroe isn’t just part of the group; he’s the center of it. The sun that all the other planets orbit. He’s leaning against a wall, one arm casually draped over the shoulder of a brunette who is looking up at him like he personally hung the moon. He’s even bigger in person than he seems from the stands, a solid wall of muscle and bone. His sandy-blond hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and a lazy smile plays on his lips. But it’s his eyes that snag my attention. Even from across the room, they look like chips of ice; a piercing, intelligent blue.
He’s not laughing like the others. He’s watching. Observing everything with a calm, predatory stillness. He’s the lion in a room full of hyenas.
My stomach does a nervous flip. He looks exactly as untouchable as his reputation suggests.
“Target acquired,” Chloe whispers, following my gaze. “Damn. He’s even prettier up close. Are you sure you can do this?”
Her doubt is the only fuel I need. My fear hardens into resolve. I’m not here to admire him, I’m here to prove a point.
“Watch me,” I say, my voice tight.
I detach myself from Chloe’s side, squaring my shoulders. Every step I take feels like I’m wading through molasses. The crowd seems to part for me, or maybe it’s just the force of my own terrified determination. I keep my eyes locked on him, ignoring the curious glances I’m getting.
The brunette plastered to his side gives me a nasty once-over as I approach, her eyes dismissing me as irrelevant. Good.
I stop directly in front of him. He’s so tall that I have to crane my neck back. Up close, the intelligence in his eyes is even more pronounced. They’re not just blue; they’re sharp, analytical. He looks down at me, his lazy smile faltering slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity.
“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice a low, smooth baritone that cuts through the noise.
This is it. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My brain is screaming at me to abort the mission.
I ignore it.
I don’t say a word. Instead I reach up, placing my hand on his chest to steady myself—a mistake; his chest is rock-solid and radiating heat, and I push up onto my toes.
I quickly press my mouth to his.
For a split second, nothing happens. His lips are firm, unmoving, tasting faintly of whiskey and mint. It’s like kissing a statue. I’ve done it. I can pull away now, but—
His hand comes up, lightning-fast and cups the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. The kiss goes from cold to searing in a nanosecond. His mouth softens against mine, taking control, slanting and demanding a response I’m not prepared togive. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a kiss of possession, of surprise, of dominance. A jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shoots down my spine, and against my will, my lips part.
My entire body goes rigid with shock and something else, something terrifyingly like desire.
I wrench myself back, stumbling away from him. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stare up at him, my mind a complete blank.
His expression is unreadable. The lazy smile is gone, replaced by an intensity that pins me to the spot. His blue eyes are dark, blazing, like a clear sky right before a storm. He looks at me not like I’m a stranger who just assaulted him, but like he’s been waiting for me.
The brunette is staring at me with open-mouthed fury, and the chatter from his friends has died down. The whole world has shrunk to the space between West Monroe and me.
In that terrifying silence, I do the only thing I can.
I turn and run.
I don’t look back, I can’t. Not when I can feel his eyes on my back like a physical weight, a burning heat that urges me forward. I shove past bodies, ignoring the annoyed shouts and sloshing drinks. The faces are a blur, the music a dull, throbbing headache. My only thought is escape.
I finally spot Chloe near the kitchen, her triumphant grin faltering as she takes in my wild-eyed panic.
“What happened?” she shouts over the music.
“We’re leaving. Now,” I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the door.
