“I’ve wanted you since the first table read.” The admission seems to cost him something. “But that doesn’t mean?—“
I kiss him.
It’s nothing like the gentle press of lips we shared the day before. This is hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the accumulated frustration of years of wanting things I wouldn’t let myself have. He responds immediately—his hands coming up to grip my hips, his mouth opening under mine, his body arching up to meet the grind of my pelvis.
Yes,something in me sings.Yes, this, finally, yes.
His kiss tastes like expensive whiskey—the kind that burns smooth down your throat—with a lingering sweetness of cherries that makes me wonder how long he’d been nursing that drink before finding me. The Daniels’ liquor cabinet was clearly fair game tonight. His hands move over me with a roughness that surprises me, calloused palms dragging against my sensitiveskin in a way that speaks of real work, not just the sculpted perfection of Hollywood gyms.
When I roll my hips against him, pressing our bodies closer, he groans deep into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me like a live wire, sending sparks of electricity dancing across my nerve endings. His fingers dig into my waist, pulling me tighter against him as if he can’t bear even the slightest separation between us.
Fuck, he tastes good.
My fingers fumble with the hem of Atticus’s shirt. I yank it up, bunching the fabric over his ribs. His skin gleams warm under the lamplight, taut over lean muscle that shifts as he breathes. I need more. Need it all. The cotton drags stubborn against his shoulders, and I growl low in my throat.
“Off. Now.”
He lifts his arms without a word. The shirt sails over his head, lands somewhere in the shadows beyond the nest. Broad shoulders, defined chest—every inch screams alpha in ways that make my core clench. Dark hair dusts his pecs, trails down to disappear into his waistband. I trace it with my nails, scraping just hard enough to raise red lines.
His fingers glide under my shirt. Tease along the sensitive skin at my waist. I moan.
The sound rips from me, raw and needy, echoing off the high ceilings. Electricity sparks where he touches, shoots straight to my clit. My hips buck against him, chasing friction through the thick fabric of his jeans. He circles my navel slow, deliberate, thumb pressing into the dip of my hipbone.
But then his hands shift. Tighten. And instead of pulling me closer, he’s pushing me back, creating space between us even as his body screams for the opposite.
“Wait.” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “Phoenix, wait.”
“No.” I try to kiss him again, but he turns his head, my lips landing on his jaw instead. “Don’t stop. I need?—“
“I know what you need.” He finally gets enough leverage to ease me back, to create enough distance that he can look at me properly. His face is flushed, his breathing ragged, his arousal still obvious beneath me. “And I’m not saying no. I’m just saying…we should slow down. Before I lose control entirely.”
“I don’t want you to have control.” The words are shameless, heat-drunk and desperate. “I want you to do whatever you want to do with me.”
A sound escapes him—half groan, half laugh, entirely pained.
“You have no idea how much I want to take you up on that.”
“Then do it.”
“Phoenix—”
“I’m serious.” I grab the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric in my hands. “Fuck me. Bite me. Bond me. Whatever you want. I don’t care anymore?—“
“Firebird, stop.”
The words are quiet but carry a note of command that is impossible to ignore.
Atticus reaches up, his hand cupping my jaw with surprising gentleness given the chaos of the moment.
“Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are serious, searching, more green than gold in the lamplight.
“What is going on?”
I frown into his eyes, so close that my view of him has gone blurry around the edges. “I’m in heat. You’re here. It should be obvious.”
Atticus’s brow furrows, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with maddening gentleness.
