Page 37 of The Ashes of Summer

The silence stretches until it begins to pulse in my ears. I can hear my own breathing. Feel each frantic beat of my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate enough that I wonder if he can feel it too through the inches separating us.

Then his eyes lower.

His hand follows.

The moment his palm settles over my breast through the thin fabric of my dress, my lungs seize. I don't breathe. I don't think. Every muscle in my body locks beneath his touch.

He's so close.

Dark hair.

Those impossible blue eyes.

Then I’m somewhere else.

The Dogwood.

Music spilling through the crowded bar. Benny holding me while swaying on the dancefloor with that easy smile that had seemed so effortless, so genuine. His hand reaching for mine beneath the glow of the neon lights. The dizzy warmth that had spread through my chest when I'd let myself believe—just for a little while—that someone had chosen me because they wanted me.

The memory curdles almost as quickly as it arrives. Because none of it had been real. Not the smiles. Not the laughter. Not the stolen glances that had made my stomach flutter. Every conversation had been another carefully placed stone leading me toward this room. Toward Jackson. Toward the man standing in front of me now, searching my face with the same impossible blue eyes.

My stomach twists so violently I think I might throw up.

The room shifts again.

This time it's Jacob.

His hand wrapped around mine across the center console of the truck. The rough scrape of his thumb over my knuckles. Cedar. Cologne. The low certainty in his voice every time he'd promised he wasn't going anywhere.

Home.

The word blooms in my head before it shatters as I’m dragged from my thoughts as pain bites sharply through my nipple. The gasp tears itself from my throat before I can stop it. My eyes fly open as my body jerks instinctively against the restraints, the leather snapping taut above me. The brass pole presses harder into my spine, refusing to give me even an inch as I twist away from him.

My pulse is everywhere. In my throat. Behind my eyes. Hammering through my wrists until my fingers begin to tingle. I shake my head without even realizing I'm doing it, my body searching desperately for somewhere to go despite knowing there isn't anywhere.

He watches with quiet concentration, as though every tremor that runs through me—every ragged breath I fail to steady, every involuntary flinch—is telling him something he needs to know.

His free hand catches the neckline of my dress. The fabric slides slowly from my shoulder, exposing skin to the cool air before his mouth follows. The first touch steals the breath from my lungs, heat blooming where it shouldn't, my body betraying me with a violent, unwanted response that sends fresh panic crashing through me.

No. Please, no.

My thoughts tangle together as I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself somewhere else. Anywhere else.

His grip leaves the fabric and drifts lower. I feel it long before it reaches me, every slow inch of its descent tightening something inside my chest until my pulse is pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else. My thighs tense instinctively. My knees try to draw together, but he pushes his leg between them, opening me up exactly how he wants me.

I know where his hand is going. I know I can't stop it.

My breathing turns ragged, each inhale catching halfway into my lungs as I brace for whatever comes next, my entire body rigid with helpless anticipation. Every muscle screams at me to fight, to run, to do something. To bite, to scream, to scratch. But I’m frozen.

The room seems to tilt.

My thoughts dissolve into static.

All I can hear is my breathing.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.

Cool air rushes over overheated skin while I remain exactly where I am, wrists trembling above my head, lungs dragging in ragged breaths that refuse to slow. My chest rises and falls so hard it almost hurts.