Page 63 of Crave

And lower — God — curving along his abdomen, a snake coiled near his hip, jaws open mid-strike. Not stylised. Not symbolic. This one looked alive. Muscle, fangs, intention. Heat pooled low in my stomach. Because the placement was intimate. Bold. Chosen by a man who didn’t mind being looked at or knew exactly what happened when someone did. And I imagined following those lines with my tongue just to see if it moved.

He then twisted towards me, reaching behind to the back seat, and the car seemed to shrink around us. Smoke and leather closed in. His arm brushed mine. Hot skin, coarse hair, the scrape of callus running straight through me. He stilled, long enough to know I’d felt it. Then he turned, eyes catching mine like a hook sinking into flesh.

In that heartbeat, I almost thanked him for deleting my Grindr app.

Because there wasn’t a man on this planet — no torso, no profile, no blurry club mistake — who could ever come close to him.

I could swipe until my fingers bled and never find anything half as real.

Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a white T-shirt from the back seat. Then he turned and dragged it on. Fuck. It fitted him as if cut for sin. Simple, clean, and somehow better than anything hanging in a Bond Street window. The deep V framed his chest, fabric stretching over carved muscle, sleeves gripping tight around his biceps. And he let it drop just enough to tease the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans.

He didn’t have a body. He had a weapon.

And I surrendered to it.

He looked at me and his jaw flexed. For a second, something shifted beneath that hard expression. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like discomfort at being seen. Admired. As if he could feel the heat between us and didn’t know where to put it. Whatever this was, it wasn’t anger or rebound or lust and the afterburn of an alleyway mistake. It was inconceivable, sure. But also, uncontrollable.

I don’t think he liked that one bit.

“Get out.” He shouldered the door open and stepped out.

I followed, cool air rushing in to replace his scent, and I peered along the closed off lane, narrow and claustrophobic, hemmed in by the backs of buildings and bins overflowing with city rot. His car sat across it, blocking the way.

I glanced down the alley. “You’ll rack up quite the fine parking here.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck about parking fines?” He rounded the car, opened his boot and took out an ankle length leather jacket. He slipped it on.

“You might when they send the bailiffs.”

“Private education don’t teach you everything, then, eh?” He slammed the boot, meeting my gaze. “If you think this car’s in my name, you have a lot to learn, posh boy.”

So many offences in one sentence.

So much allure, too.

I was living my dissertation. And failing the ethics module spectacularly.

He angled his head. “Come on.”

The Champion’s Arms was on a corner plot, all polished brass fittings, stained-glass windows, dark wood walls smelling of wax and whisky. Men in cashmere and women in diamond earrings, laughing in tight circles, voices smooth and educated. The air was heavy with perfume and money, the clink of crystal against laughter sharp as glass. As we entered, Razor scanned the room in a single sweep, posture loose but alert. I could almost hear his thoughts. Assessing exits, lines of sight, the crowd density. Every movement was deliberate, predatory. Watching him was like watching instinct dressed in muscle and leather.

Then he leant in close, warm breath trickling down my neck. “You see him?”

I looked at Razor. He had his gaze locked on a table at the back. The usual table, I should know. Where Ollie and his rowing mates, all button-down arrogance and easy smiles, were laughing around pints. Razor wasn’t asking me to point him out. He didn’t need me to. He’d already found him, learnt what he looked like from the photos in my room and stored it to memory. It was as impressive as it was terrifying.

“Yeah.” I kept my gaze on Ollie laughing, pint in hand.

Razor nodded towards a shadowed corner. “Go wait over there. Don’t let him see you yet.”

I obeyed. Stupidly. Instinctively. As if something in me had already learnt to follow his lead. I slipped into the nook he’d pointed out, half-hidden behind a column, shadows pooling in the corners. Dim light. Close air. Nowhere to look but him.

Razor disappeared into the crush at the bar, swallowed by the hum of voices and the gleam of glass. When he came back, two bottles in hand, he stepped right in front of me. The pub was crowded, sure. Three deep at the bar, laughter and conversation pressing from every side. But the space between us was tighter than it needed to be. He didn’t leave room to breathe, and I couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or not. Tactic or instinct. Predator or man.

He passed me a bottle. “Watch him.” He lifted his beer to his mouth, eyes sweeping the room. “Tell me if he moves.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure he saw. Then a group pushed past us, laughter spilling too loud, and an accidental shove sent Razor into me. Hard. His hand flew out to hit the wall beside my head, catching his weight before he crushed me completely. But the damage was done. His body pressed to mine, heat bleeding through fabric, breath ghosting my skin. I was pinned, caught in the solid press of muscle and strength, nowhere to move. Nowhere I wanted to, either. Then he looked down, eyes locking on mine, and he was so close I could see the flecks of gold glinting through the velvet brown like light catching on broken glass. Every nerve burnt. My pulse went feral. And in that split second, I couldn’t tell if he meant to hurt me or kiss me.

Only that either would’ve felt the same.