My knees go weak. I moan, the sound soft and wrecked, and it vibrates between us. The hard press of his cock against my thigh turns my blood into fire.
More.
The thought hits like a punch. Then?—
A soft chuckle breaks the ragged sounds of our breaths. I jerk back, breathless.
Shiloh leans at the mouth of the hallway, shoulders relaxed, eyes bright with amusement. Not jealousy. That’s what shocks me most.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says. “This was just getting interesting.”
Horror blooms for half a second. It can’t compete with the lust still churning inside me.
I scrub my forearm across my lips like I can wipe it away. Like I can wipe away what my body just admitted.
Shiloh chuckles again, low and pleased. “There she is.”
I glare at him. “Go to hell.”
“Probably later,” he says lightly.
Ever doesn’t move. He stays close, breath against mine, eyes holding mine like a promise and a threat at the same time.
Shiloh’s voice drops, and the amusement sharpens into something else. “You gonna tell us now?”
My throat closes. Tell them what?
My name?
My past?
The truth?
That I came here to find Midnight. That I came here because I think Deacon is here. That I don’t know if they’re the lock or the key.
I don’t know what the hell they want from me. I grab the second trash bag and jerk it up, using the motion to step out of Ever’s cage.
“I’m taking this trash out,” I bite out, voice shaking with anger I refuse to name.
Shiloh’s chuckle follows me as I shove open the rear door. Instantly, the muggy night wraps around myoverheated skin. I throw the bag into the dumpster hard enough to make it slap metal. My hands shake, and my breath comes too fast.
Ever kissed me like a warning. Shiloh watched like it was his right.
And my body?—
My body voted yes.
Every single time.
Thirty-three? You are ancient!
And I’m sorry, oh wise one, but simply ‘being here,’ as you put it, feels exactly like nothing.
I go to work. I come home. I sleep. I wake up. I talk to people and none of it sticks.
No one sees me. Not really.
You’re the only person who doesn’t talk to me like I’m something fragile that might break, and you’re just ink on a piece of paper.
