“Then stop talking,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “And prove it.”
He didn’t need a second invitation.
He didn’t scoop me up in some cinematic flourish. Instead, he slid his hands under my arms, lifting me off the floor just enough to walk me backward. My boots dragged across the polished timber, each scuff falling in time with the heavy thud of my heart. He didn't stop until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed.
He let me go, but only for the second it took for me to sit. The mattress dipped under my weight, and then he was there, kneeling between my legs, his hands finding my waist again. He wasn't rushing.
"You're shaking, Wilder."
"I'm calibrated for a different climate, Nick. This is... an outlier."
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, but his eyes stayed dark. He reached for the buttons of my shirt. No fumbling.
Button.
His knuckles grazed the soft skin of my ribs, a trail of fire in the cool room.
Button.
My pulse hammered against the hollow of my throat, giving me away.
Button.
The fabric fell open. Cool air from the fans brushed my skin, but he was too close for it to matter. I didn't look down. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the blue.
"Proof one," he murmured, his thumb grazing the soft skin just above my bra. "Your heart rate is currently triple digits."
"Observation noted," I managed to say, though my voice was losing its professional edge. I reached for the hem of his t-shirt, my fingers trembling as I pulled the cotton up and over his head.
He was all hard lines and old scars, his skin several shades darker than mine, marked by sun, work, and a past he hadn’t bothered to explain. Nothing about him looked ornamental. His strength had purpose. Every inch of him seemed built for patience, discipline, and the kind of restraint I had just invited him to lose.
He leaned in, his chest finally meeting mine, and the contact was a physical revelation. It wasn't just skin on skin—it was a recognition of body and intent. He moved his mouth to the hollow of my throat, his breath hot against my pulse.
"Proof two," he whispered against my skin. "You're not fighting the edge anymore."
He was right. I wasn't looking for the exit. I wasn't calculating the risk-to-reward ratio. I slid my hands over the broad, corded muscles of his back, pulling him closer until there was no air left between us.
"I'm not fighting anything, Nick," I said, my voice dropping into a register I didn't recognize. "I’m just... observing the results."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hand moving to the back of my neck, his grip firm and anchoring.
“Then pay attention,” he said. “Because I’m about to show you exactly what I’ve been holding back.”
Chapter 17
Controlled Burn
NICK
Theridgestilllingeredon my skin, all grit and sun and adrenaline. Inside, everything tightened.
"Then pay attention," I told her, my voice sounding like gravel under a heavy tread. “Because I’m about to show you exactly what I’ve been holding back.”
I’d spent fifteen years reading the language of bodies that didn’t want to be read—the micro-tension in a trigger finger, the shallow catch of breath before a lethal decision. Juliette was the most fluent silence I’d ever encountered. Even now, sitting on the edge of the mattress with her shirt hanging open, she was trying to "observe the results" like it was a field report.
She didn't realize I’d been mapping her since day one. I knew the exact shade of storm-sky her throat turned when shewas challenged. I knew that she didn't flinch from velocity—she leaned into it.
I pressed in, my forearms flanking her head, pinning her with nothing but my shadow. I didn’t touch her yet. I wanted to see her hold the tension until it fractured.
