Page 41 of The Summer We Lie

Something dark and possessive rises within me, clawing its way up from depths I didn't know existed. The whiskey has stripped away my carefully constructed walls, dissolving years of restraint, leaving only raw, primal instinct in its wake. I lean down, my lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear, feeling her tremble against my chest.

"What if I don't want you to?" I whisper, my breath scorching against her skin, each word a brand of ownership.

"You don't?" The question escapes her on a shaky exhale, surprise mingling with something that sounds dangerously like hope.

"The thought of anyone else touching you makes me crazy." The confession tears free before I can cage it. "I want it to be me." I drag my tongue up the column of her neck, savoring the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse leap beneath my mouth like a frightened animal.

She sucks in a sharp breath, her body tensing momentarily before surrendering against me. "Mr. Grayson," she whispers, fingers clutching desperately at my shirt, "we can't."

I groan, the sound rumbling from deep in my chest as I bring my free hand back to her throat, applying just enough pressure to feel the frantic flutter of her pulse against my palm—not to hurt, never to hurt, just to control.

"What did I tell you about calling me that?" My voice emerges rough, gritty with barely leashed desire.

A small whimper escapes her, the sound hitting me like a physical blow, straight to my already throbbing cock. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, eyes wide and dark with unmistakable want.

I release her wrists and throat only to slide my hands beneath her, cupping her ass firmly. In one fluid motion, I lift her onto the table, setting her directly on top of her abandoned artwork, beside the bowl of now-melting ice cream. She doesn't spare a glance for the ruined drawing, her attention fixed entirely on me as she presses a trembling hand against my chest.

"Are you taking it now?" she asks, looking impossibly innocent yet devastatingly seductive—a combination that threatens to bring me to my knees.

"Can I still have it?" The question emerges as a primal growl. I tangle my fingers in her hair, pulling with calculated force to expose the elegant line of her neck. The sight of her throat bared, vulnerable yet trusting, nearly shatters my remaining control.

"Yes," she breathes, the single word wrapped in a moan that resonates through my entire body.

"Fuck," I groan, bringing my mouth to her neck, kissing and tasting with barely restrained hunger. The knowledge that she still wants me to claim her virginity makes my cock pulse painfully against my zipper.

Her skin tastes of sweet fruit and something uniquely, intoxicatingly her. I drag my teeth across her racing pulse point, feeling it thunder beneath my lips. She arches into me, a soft, desperate sound escaping her parted lips.

"I'll make it good for you," I promise against her flushed skin. "Take care of you. Show you everything."

Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails biting even through the fabric of my shirt. She responds to each touch, each kiss with a new, delicious sound—a symphony of desire I've never experienced with anyone else. It's utterly addictive, a drug I already know I won't be able to give up.

I pull back just enough to study her face—cheeks flushed with arousal, lips swollen and parted, eyes clouded with naked want. Despite the whiskey coursing through my veins, I've never felt more lucid, more certain about what I need.

And what I need, what I crave with every fiber of my being, is her. All of her. Every inch, every sound, every breath.

Chapter Eighteen

Skye

I can't believe what's happening right now. His lips are on my neck, working his way across every inch of exposed skin. He bites down and I can't help the moan that escapes—the pain feels so good. My clit is throbbing with need, consumed with it so much that I don't even care that we're out in the open.

I don't even register that Harper could come home any moment. She asked me to cover for her so she could go to Obsidian, and she could be back any time. Why is he not worried about her catching us?

He grinds his hard length into my center, and even with the barrier of our clothes, I can tell he's big. So big it makes my breath catch in my throat. He feels so good against me, the pressure exactly where I need it. He kisses his way up to my jaw and he smells like... whiskey. The rich, smoky scent is unmistakable as his lips brush the corner of my mouth, and everything makes sense suddenly.

I bring my hand up to his lips, stopping him. His eyes flash with confusion, dark and hungry.

"What's wrong? Did you change your mind?" he asks, voice rough with desire, the words slightly slurred around the edges.

"Have you been drinking?" I ask, the pieces falling into place like a puzzle I wish I couldn't solve.

"Yeah, I went out with Logan and Ethan after work," he says, and my heart drops into my stomach like a stone. That's why he isn't worried about being caught. That's why he doesn't care we're out in the open where anyone could walk in. That's why he wants me, of all people. He's drunk.

I push him back and stand, smoothing down my clothes with trembling hands, trying to erase the evidence of what almost happened. "You're drunk," I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

"I'm not that drunk," he counters, reaching for me again. "I was only drinking to get you out of my head."

I don't think he meant that to come out like that because he flinches as soon as the words leave his mouth. The sting of rejection slices through me, sharp and immediate. Of course. Of course he needed alcohol to want someone like me. Of course I wasn't enough on my own.