Chapter 16
“That was quick.” I smile as Hex strides toward me, still holding his phone to his ear. His expression is mostly flat, but there’s something about the way he moves—controlled, with that ever-present confidence—that makes my stomach tighten.
I notice something in his hand, a small object, and tilt my head. “What’s that?”
Hex stops in front of me, holding it out between his fingers. A small, round wooden token, about the size of a poker chip, with an intricate design burned into the surface. I take it, turning it over in my palm. Bet he got it from one of the booths during that call with Will.
It’s a pair of stacked pancakes, dripping with syrup, and the word Champion charred into the middle.
A burst of laughter escapes me, rich and unrestrained. “Oh my God.” I press a hand to my mouth as if he just gave me a diamond ring, shaking my head. “Hex, seriously?”
His grin spreads wickedly slow. “Hey, you earned it.” His voice dips, a low rumble that resonates deep within me.
I narrow my eyes at him, lips twitching. “Is this your way of saying you appreciate a woman who can handle a sizable... stack?”
The look on Hex’s face sharpens, eyes dark with mischief. “Oh, Legs, I have no doubt you can handle whatever I put in front of you.”
A blush warms my cheeks as I stick my tongue out at him, holding up my new token in triumph.
Before I can come up with a comeback, he steps in. Closer than before. Close enough that the air between us vanishes in an instant. His hands slide to my hips, rough fingertips pressing into the soft curve as he pulls me flush against him.
My breath hitches in my chest.
There’s no second-guessing. Just heat and certainty.
His mouth claims mine with the quiet hunger of a man who’s spent all day reining himself in.
I open myself to him and he deigns what I’m offering.
He tastes of lingering syrup and heat, something rich and heady, something entirely him.
His hands tighten at my waist, fingers pressing into my skin, not out of fear I’ll pull away, but to anchor me there with him.
I’m not going anywhere.
A small noise escapes the back of my throat, and it only makes him deepen the kiss, taking what he wants. His body is solid against mine, the warmth of his skin seeping through his shirt, his muscles tensing beneath my hands as I grip his shoulders.
One of his hands glides up my back, threading into my hair, tilting my head just how he wants it. A shiver rolls down my spine. It’s been a while—too long—since someone kissed me like this. Like they meant it.
Like they needed it.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, trying to ground myself in the middle of this storm he’s pulled me into. A storm I’m not sure I ever want to leave.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to catch his breath, his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, and his voice drops into something rough, something dangerous.
“If you stick that tongue out at me,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna claim it.”
He steps back, weaving his hand with mine.
It’s bigger, rougher, and threads through with a possessive kind of ease.
Our jackets still hang over his arm, and he carries them the same way he’s carried this entire day—with quiet authority, intent, guiding me through every new turn with the kind of certainty I didn’t know I craved.
Hex has kept me on my toes from the moment we met just two short nights ago.
At the gun range, he showed a steady patience with me. Teaching, not just showing off. He stressed safety, control, protection. His hands were firm but never intrusive, his voice confident but never condescending.
The pancake challenge tore through his serious exterior, exposing a man who lived for competition, thrived on teasing, and somehow made it all impossible not to love.
He wielded influence without force, turning the loyalty of his bar patrons into a shield.
With a single picture, a well-placed tag, and a self-satisfied look, he shut down the person who spent months making my life hell.
And he did it without blinking, the kind of reflex that comes from instinct, not decision.
As if protecting me lives in his bones, woven into who he is.
Now, here, in the middle of a bustling market, he’s shown me yet another side of himself.
He kissed me.
A surprise tucked between his teasing, his stupid little gift, and the heat in his eyes… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. A kiss that had no business being this good. A kiss that stole the breath right from my lungs and has me reeling. A kiss I want more of.
I squeeze his hand, feeling the solid weight of it, the warmth of his palm against mine. I don’t have time to overthink any of this, and for once, I don’t want to.
I just want to know more. Every little last detail about Hector “Hex” Alvarez.
The memory of Hex’s kiss still lingers two days later as I sit behind the wheel of my SUV, Demi beside me with her newest dark romance obsession in hand.
The glossy cover practically casts judgment over the madness she dragged me into—hauling me out of the shop, pulling me from the piece I’d been working on, all for what she insisted was a proper lunch break to hunt down some well-earned smut.
With Bash at school, I couldn’t come up with a decent excuse to say no.
“So?” she presses, taking the book from me, already launching into her interrogation. “Recount how it ended? I need details, bitch. Don’t you dare skimp on a single thing.”
I light up from the inside out as I merge into traffic. “It was perfect. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. He was—” a dreamy sigh slips out. “A perfect gentleman when he dropped me off, and the yard? Demi, it looks fucking phenomenal.”
She gasps. “Landscaping and romance? Be still my fucking heart.”
“I got another toe-curling kiss before he left,” I admit, and just saying it makes them twitch again. “He knew Bash and Andrew would arrive soon, so he didn’t push for more.”
Demi lets out a strangled sound. “So, what I’m hearing is… you still haven’t climbed that man like a goddamn tree?”
I burst out laughing. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?! Bitch, when will you see him again?”
I sigh, shaking my head. “We haven’t made any plans yet, but yeah… I’m dying here. And also”—I glance over at her, suddenly feeling awkward as hell about what I’m about to admit—“I’m, uh… kind of spiraling about something.”
Demi’s brows shoot up. “Oh no. What? Is he bad at sexting? Weird kisser? Please don’t tell me he moans like a haunted house ghost.”
I snort. “No! God, no. It’s me. I’m the problem.”
She narrows her eyes. “The fuck are you talking about?”
I grip the wheel of my SUV, hands securely now at ten and two. “What if I’m bad at… you know. Stuff.”
Demi blinks. “Stuff?”
“You know, stuff.”
“Use your damn big girl words.”
I gesture wildly with my hand and mouth and watch as realization dawns on her.
She sits up straighter in the passenger seat. “Wait. Are you talking about handies and blowies?”
I groan, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel for a brief second as we come to a red light before forcing myself to focus back on the road.
“Yes! It’s been so long since I’ve been with anyone but Andrew, and let’s be real, foreplay with him basically meant he did a little playing, then straight to penetration. ”
Demi makes a disgusted noise. “Ugh. Classic.”
“What if a man like Hex expects me to initiate?” I ask, fully spiraling now. “What if I just… reach down his pants and start tugging it like a goddamn thirty-nine-year-old amateur?”
Demi turns in her seat, face full of the kind of judgment that only a best friend can deliver. “Babe. No. You get in there, you find your inner Demi, you spit on that hand and theeeennn you start jerking.”
My hands slap the wheel. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Spit on my hand? I can’t do that.”
Demi throws her hands in the air. “Why the fuck not?!”
I shake my head, fighting a full-body cringe. “That’s something I feel like I need to practice.”
There’s a beat of silence before Demi bursts into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. “You—wait—you think you need practice? To spit?”
“I do! I don’t wanna be out here embarrassing myself! What if I do it wrong? What if I get stage fright and my mouth just dries up? The goddamn Sahara trapped behind my teeth.”
Demi gasps for breath between cackles. “Sable, babe, you don’t need a fucking training regimen for giving a hand job. Jesus Christ, I love you so much.”
I groan again, pressing my foot down on the gas a little harder as if speeding will somehow get me out of this conversation.
Demi wipes tears from her eyes. “Okay, okay, listen. I’ll help you.”
I side-eye her.
She throws her head back, laughing. “If you’re scared of your own damn spit, we’ve got work to do.”
I groan, gripping the wheel tighter. “I am not scared of my spit.”
“You just said you can’t spit in your hand.” She lifts a brow, clearly enjoying my suffering. “And babe, if you can’t do it alone, how the hell are you gonna do it in the heat of the moment?”
I open my mouth to argue but immediately close it.
Fuck. She’s got a point.
She sees my hesitation and knows she’s got me too.
“Exactly.”
My best friend rolls her shoulders as if she’s about to give a hand job seminar.
“Now. It’s all about commitment. No half-assed dribbles. No weak, last-minute regrets. You own that spit, you mean that spit—”
“Demi—”
“—because if you hesitate, if you fumble the spit—” She shudders dramatically. “That’s how you ruin a moment.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself. “Speaking from experience?”
She gives me a look. “Sable. I have thrived in the streets.”
I shake my head, eyes back on the road. “Demi, I swear to God—”
She ignores me completely. “Alright, watch and learn.”
Demi spits into her hand, unfazed by the fact we’re barreling down the road in the middle of a casual weekday afternoon. As if that’s a totally normal thing to do.
A perfect, glistening glob lands in the center of her palm, like she’s demonstrating something off the back of a porn set.
I shriek. “Demi, what the fuck?!”
She holds up her hand proudly. “See? That is how you do it.”
“Oh my God, wipe it off!” I swerve slightly, heart pounding as I lean toward the glove compartment and grab the extra napkins from the fast food I pretend I don’t eat.
She laughs and rubs her hand down her jeans. “You see the form? The control?”
“I see that you’re a fucking menace.”
She props her elbow on the center console and smirks. “Alright. Your turn.”
I whip my head toward her so fast my neck pops. “Are you out of your damn mind?”
Demi shrugs. “Practice makes perfect.”
“I am driving!”
“So? Just do a little one.”
I gape at her, scandalized. “I am not spitting in my own hand while operating a moving vehicle.”
Demi sighs dramatically, shaking her head. “This is why men keep winning, Sable.”
I huff a breath, long and suffering, and glance at Demi. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
She just folds her arms and leans back in her seat, smug as hell. “Nope. You wanna rock his world or not?”
I groan, adjusting my grip on the wheel. “Fine.”
Demi perks right back up. “Yes! Okay, just remember: not too much, not too little. And for the love of all things holy, do not hock up anything nasty. This is allergy season.”
I cringe but extend my free hand, palm up.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, trying to make sense of the foreign limb in front of me, as if it’s not attached to my body.
Demi gestures encouragingly. “Just go for it.”
I take a breath, hype myself up, and lean in—
—and immediately freeze.
Oh my God. I can’t do this.
What if it’s too thick? What if it’s not thick enough?
What if I just start drooling mid-moment, helpless and mortified, a grown-ass woman with the motor control of a teething baby?
Oh, fuck. What if it lands weird and I get spit on the floor?
Jesus Christ, what if Hex is looking down at me, waiting, expecting something sexy and confident, and I just spit a sad little string onto my fingers?
My heart rate spikes. Oh my God.
“Sable.” Demi’s voice is sharp, reeling me back in. “You’re thinking too much. It’s spit. Not a science project.”
I swallow hard. “I just—I don’t want to mess it up.”
She snorts. “Babe, you’re not deactivating a bomb. Just spit.”
Right. Okay. Just spit.
I steel myself, open my mouth—
And at the last second, panic wins. I barely produce a weak little pffft of moisture; an embarrassingly dry attempt that barely even registers.
Demi gasps with the intensity of someone watching their legacy go up in flames. “Oh hell no.”
I groan, clenching my eyes shut. “I told you I can’t do this!”
Demi swats my arm. “Pitiful! I’ve seen toddlers with more control over their saliva!”
I slap my hand onto the wheel, exasperated. “I don’t spit, Demi!”
“Well, babe, that’s gonna be a problem. You’re going to have to find an alternative.”
I groan again, throwing my head back. “Fucking kill me.”
Demi sighs dramatically. “Alright, pull into the grocery store up here.”
I snap my head toward her. “I am absolutely not buying lube from the grocery store at 12:30 p.m. on a Tuesday.”
Demi bursts out laughing. “No, dumbass, we’re getting bananas.” She pauses, tapping her chin. “Or do you think we need a”—she glances at me, eyes gleaming with mischief—“bigger vegetable?”
I nearly swerve into the next lane.
She hasn’t even seen how bad my gag reflex is yet.