Chapter One
Reckless Heat
Sarah
Senior Year of College
The room is quiet, the kind that settles in deep and makes every breath feel louder than it should. Golden light spills from his bedroom window, striping across the floor and catching on the couch where my bag has been tossed, my shoes abandoned by the door. We always end up like this, me lingering after everyone else is gone, the night stretched thin around us, like we’re the only two people awake in the world.
We’ve been here before, so many times in the last year, standing on the line we swore we wouldn’t cross again. Friends who flirt too much. Friends who kiss sometimes, like they can take it backin the morning. Friends who spend just enough time in each other’s space to pretend it's nothing.
Except it’s never been nothing. Not for me. And not for him, if the way he’s looking at me right now means what I think it does.
Jace is leaned back against the headboard, shirtless, gray sweats hanging dangerously low on his hips. Sweats he knows do things to me. I think he wears them on purpose. The sheet is pooled even lower, the sharp lines of his chest and abs catching the faint light. His hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes… God, those eyes.
They pin me in place from across the room, dark and intent, like he’s already decided what’s about to happen and is just waiting for me to realize it too.
The air feels heavier the longer we just stare at each other. I can hear the faint hum of the fridge in the other room, the occasional whoosh of a car passing on the street below, but mostly it’s my own breathing, fast and shallow, betraying me. My palms are damp. My skin feels too tight.
I tell myself to turn around, to grab my bag from where it’s slouched against the couch and make some half-lame excuse about an early morning. I even take a step toward it. But my pulse is pounding, and my body’s buzzing with that familiar mix of nerves and want that only he can pull out of me.
He tips his head slightly, like he’s studying me. Or daring me.
“Sarah.”
My name leaves his mouth low and rough, and it’s ridiculous how fast it slides under my skin.
I stop. Look at him.
His eyes track the movement of my throat as I swallow. Then lower. Slow. Deliberate.
I should at least make it hard for him. I should roll my eyes, laugh it off, make some joke about how he’s not that irresistible. But my feet are already carrying me toward the bed, my pulse drumming in my ears, every step drawing me deeper into the gravity between us.
He doesn’t move when I reach the edge of the mattress. Just sits there, letting me make the next move, like he’s giving me a choice we both know I’m not making.
Memories flicker, uninvited, the first time his hand brushed mine, the way he kissed me behind the bleachers when no one was looking, the taste of his beer when I stole a sip just to see if he’d kiss me again. Every one of them is like pouring gasoline on an open flame.
Before my brain can catch up, my knees are sinking into the mattress.
His gaze doesn’t waver as I crawl closer, bracing my hands on either side of him.
It’s reckless, this heat between us. Reckless and inevitable.
And I’ve never wanted anything more.
The mattress dips under my knee, the faint scent of his detergent, clean cotton with something warmer, wrapping around me. My pulse hammers so hard I’m sure he hears it.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, eyes locked on mine like he’s waiting to see if I’ll really close the distance this time. No smirk. No smart-ass comment. Just heat.
I stop with my hands braced on either side of his ribs. His breath brushes my cheek, steady but heavier than it was a second ago. There’s a tiny hitch in it when I lean closer, close enough to see every fleck of gold in his eyes.
His lips touch mine, soft, testing, and my stomach flips. I tighten my grip on the sheet, but it’s not enough. I lean in, and the kiss deepens, slow and unhurried, like we both know we’ve stepped over the line and neither one of us cares.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers rough against my skin, and pulls me in. My breath stutters at the way his mouth moves over mine, steady, certain, like he’s committing it to memory.
I give up pretending I can keep my hands to myself. I press my palms to his chest, heat over hard muscle, the solid thump of his heartbeat under my fingers. I should be thinking about what this means, about how it’ll mess everything up. I’m not. I’m thinking about how he says my name like it’s something he’s been holding in for years.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and I slide a hand to his jaw. Stubble scrapes my fingertips, a rough contrast to the heat of his mouth. A low sound rumbles out of him, vibrating against my lips, and it shoots straight through me. His hand locks on my hip, fingers curling hard enough to make me gasp, dragging me flush against the thick, solid heat of him. My breath stutters, a helpless sound slipping free, and he swallows it like he’s claiming it.
