I raise an eyebrow at him. “What?” I ask. “You sound like Liam right now.”
“I donot,” he snaps. Then mutters, “Do you need me to pick you up?”
“Nope. I’ll grab a cab.”
I start walking backward toward the curb. “I’ll see you later.”
His jaw clenches again. But he nods.
And watches me go.
Which is... odd.
But I tell myself it means nothing.
Because Ash Ryder doesn’t get jealous.
Not over me.
***
By the time I make it back to the house, the sun’s dipping low, casting amber light across the windows.
Itwasnice catching up with Matt. He’s always been easygoing, the kind of person you can instantly relax around. He told me all about his new girlfriend—how happy he is, how well things are going.
I toe off my flats at the door and drop my bag by the couch, but my mind isn’t buzzing from the caffeine or the easy conversation over matcha.
It’s buzzing because of Ash.
The kiss. The weight of his hand on my waist. The heat of his palm. Ishouldbe over it. But my body clearly didn’t get the memo.
I’m buzzing with this strange, restless energy—and I decide I need to get it out of my system. Once and for all.
Imarch toward my room with purpose, changing into leggings and one of Ash’s old tour shirts I may or may not have stolen from the laundry pile.
Then I reach for the soft-covered notebook tucked in the back of my nightstand drawer.
Not the one for shopping lists or to-do’s. This isthenotebook—my personal sanctuary.
For blog notes. For poems. For journaling and truths I don’t show anyone.
I sink cross-legged onto my bed and open to a blank page.
And I start writing. I imagine Ash and me alone in the photo studio—and I imagine what Iwishhad happened after our kiss.
The studio’s dim light casts shadows around us, heightening the intimacy of the moment. The cold wall presses against my back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Ash’s body. I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and strong, and it syncs with mine, our rhythms merging into one.
This time, Ash’s kiss is fierce—his tongue delving deep, tasting me, claiming me. I moan softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth, as his hands slide lower, gripping my ass and lifting me with ease.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pressing closer, feeling the hard evidence of his desire against my core. The rough wall scrapes my back, but I don’t care.
His hands find the hem of my dress—right where I want them. He lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing against my bare skin, sending shivers down my spine. I’m wearing nothing underneath, and the vulnerability of the moment makes my heart race. His touch is deliberate, his fingers tracing patterns on my thighs, teasing me, driving me wild.
“Sucha good girl,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. I arch my back, pressing myself into his touch, craving more, needing more.
Ash’s eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of me, his gaze lingering on my body with an intensity that makes me feel both beautiful and desired. He presses me back against the wall, his body caging me in, his hands roaming freely over my skin. His touch is firm yet gentle, his fingers mapping every curve, every dip, as if committing me to memory.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls, his lips finding mine again. “So perfect for me.” His words are a heady mix of praise and possession, and they send a rush of arousal through me.
