I sink back into my story, sighing dreamily at the thought of being pinned beneath one of them.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe I am waiting for a monster to find me, because at this point, I can’t imagine a man ever fulfilling me.
When I hit an especially filthy scene, heat pools between my thighs.
Of all the places to read this chapter, I picked a bar. Probably not my smartest choice, but I’ve got nothing else to do.
Leave it to me to get turned on in public.
Looks like another night, just me and my rose-shaped vibrator.
I shift in my chair, desperate for some friction, when something barely grazes my collarbone.
What the hell was that?
My back snaps straight, eyes darting around the bar, searching for the asshole who touched me.
But there’s no one.
And as furious as I should be … something in my stardust blood answers.
Like it spent lifetimes waiting for this moment.
Before I can shake the thought, the familiar scent of pine and cinnamon wraps around me, carving a constellation of spice, heat, and longing under my skin.
Fuck.
The bookshop.
My eyes flutter shut as I drink in the earthy, masculine scent, each breath feeding the pressure between my thighs. A soft, teasing touch ghosts against my ear, leaving behind the crackle of bang snaps against my skin.
I whip around, teeth bared, ready to tear into whoever’s fucking with me.
But there’s nothing.
Just shadows.
Just locals, drinking and laughing.
My breath shudders when another phantom touch grazes the side of my neck. My pulse jumps, and heat rolls up my spine, blurring the line between panic and something far more dangerous. My body arches on instinct, hips lifting off the stool, chasing the ache.
Fuck, it feels so good.
A soft moan catches in my throat, and—holy fuck—I need to get out of here before I humiliate myself on a barstool. I’m white-knuckling the edge of my seat, trying not to fall apart in front of a bunch of retired coal miners who probably stared into the void until the void backed down and ran like a coward.
And yet, my body teeters on the edge of something dangerous.
Somethinginevitable.
The intoxicating scent of pine and cinnamon lingers in the air. Molten heat claws its way through me, sinking deep and dragging my pulse with it. My thighs clench on instinct, but it only tightens the ache already blooming inside me.
I should run. Iwantto.
But another part of me—one I don’t fully understand—wants to stay, wants to let this strange, invisible pull take me under.
Something brushes against my ear again.
