My brows lift. “No?”
“There’s this…feeling.” Her eyes hold mine, steady. “I’ve had it all day.”
“What kind of feeling?”
She steps into my space, her fingers brushing the hem of my shirt before slipping under it just enough to graze skin. “The kind where everything feels a little too warm. Too aware. And every time you come near me, it gets worse.”
My pulse stutters.
“See?” she murmurs, fingertips sliding up my chest, slow and exploratory. “There it is again.”
Her breath skims my jaw. I can feel the smile she’s trying not to show.
“And now,” she adds quietly, “it’s getting very hard to pretend I don’t want you to do something about it.”
I swallow hard. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”
She rises onto her toes, hands curling in my collar, her mouth a breath from mine. “Good,” she whispers. “I’m cold.”
The first brush of her lips is soft, testing.
The second steals every coherent thought from myhead. Her lips fasten over mine, making a quiet sound that undoes me completely. For a moment, we both still, holding our breaths. I lift her onto the counter without breaking the kiss, snaking an arm around her waist and drawing her in. Her knees frame my hips, and she pulls me closer. Every part of me screams yes, and the part that loves her most whispers not yet.
At first, it’s cautious and tentative, like treading in water. Soft, exploratory brushing of lips, a breath that passes between us, impossible to tell who inhaled and who exhaled.
“Wren,” I manage, rough and broken.
She looks at me, pupils wide, lips kiss-swollen. “Yes?”
“If we keep going…” My voice fails, drops to a growl. “I’ll want more.”
“I’m serious, Kieran. I don’t know what I’m doing, only that I need you closer.”
I apply more pressure, and her mouth opens, darting her tongue to trace my lower lip. Her whimpers echo inside my body, my hand sliding into her hair.
I press my forehead to hers, trying to breathe. “You have no idea how bad I want you.”
“Show me.”
The kiss deepens, turns hungry, desperate. My self-control frays, one thread at a time. I slide my hands under her top and find bare skin—warm, perfect. She gasps, and I stop.
“Yes?” I ask, barely able to get the word out.
She nods, eyes locked on mine. “Yes, Starboy. Take me to bed.”
22
NOW YOU ARE MINE (WREN)
His arms are solid under me, strength coiled and safe. The stairs creak as he carries me upward, my pulse thrumming in dark red waves—steady, persistent, alive. His breath grazes my ear, scattering silver sparks through the haze.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, rough-edged, a bit amused.
Of course I am. My body has no map for this. I’ve never wanted to be touched this way. It feels like drifting into a dream, drunk on wine.
“You okay?” His thumb drifts along my cheekbone, tripping my breath.
I nod.
