Chapter Fourteen
Skylar
The place smells of oil and cigarettes. It’s the kind of smell that latches onto the back of your throat and refuses to let go.
The apartment is small.
One room divided by a worn-out couch that sags in the middle.
A punching bag hangs in the corner, a stack of weights scattered near its base.
A bed sits made against the far wall, low to the floor.
Bare bulbs swing from the ceiling. The tiles near the kitchen sink are cracked and dirty, the grout worn thin.
Shadows crawl along the edges of the room, clinging to the places the light refuses to touch.
I stand there, hands still clutched around my heavy bags, pretending I don’t notice the thin film of dust on the counter or the plate sitting in the sink. Everything in this place hums with the weight of him. Rough. Unpolished. Real.
“It’s not much,” he says, raking a hand through his hair.
“It’s fine,” I lie.
It’s his place. His mess. His bed. At least he has something to come back to. I don’t even have that.
He moves past me and heads for the kitchen bench, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair without looking.
The fridge door groans as it swings open. Inside, there’s almost nothing. A few beers, a half loaf of bread. A block of cheese and a jar of mustard scraped nearly clean.
He grabs the bread and cheese, then closes the fridge door with his foot. He sets everything down on the counter, his movements steady. Unhurried.
I drop my bag beside the couch and sit. The cushion sinks under my weight; the springs creaking loud enough to cut through the quiet. The walls press closer with every breath.
He grabs a pan and sets it on the stove. The burner clicks, then catches. Butter hits the pan with a hiss, the sound cutting through the quiet.
I shift on the couch, pulling my knees in, trying not to watch the way his shoulders move beneath his shirt. He never glances my way, but every action comes off as deliberate. Controlled.
There’s no softness in him. He’s always been hot. Infuriatingly so. Even when I hated myself for noticing.
I listen to the soft crackle of bread toasting in the pan.
A moment later he flips the sandwich, checks the edges, presses it flat with the back of a spatula.
My stomach clenches without warning. I hadn’t realized how long I’d gone without food that didn’t come from a vending machine.
I watch him slide the toast onto a plate, then turn toward me.
He doesn’t ask whether I want it. Just walks over and holds out the plate, the grilled cheese still steaming. Melted cheese spills from the edges, thick and golden where it seeps through the crust. The bread’s burnt around the corners.
I look up.
His eyes meet mine, and something shifts low in my stomach. That stare doesn’t waver or soften. The weight of it pins me in place, dragging heat through my chest and down between my thighs. My body twitches with the urge to move, to do something, anything, before I drown under the pressure.
I reach out and take the plate, using the motion to break whatever the hell is happening between us.
“Thanks,” I say too quickly, dropping my gaze to the food.
The first bite scalds my tongue. I chew slowly.
It’s good. Greasy. Heavy. The kind of warmth that sticks to your ribs. Better than anything Dolores ever ruined in her kitchen.
Zane leans against the counter, arms folded. His eyes stay on me, steady and unreadable.
“You feed everyone who shows up at your door?” My voice catches in the middle. I hate that he hears the crack.
His brow lifts. “Why? You planning on moving in?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly, doing anything to buy time.
The bread’s gone soft at the edges, but the taste still beats anything I’ve had in weeks.
“So,” he says, “turning eighteen. Not all it’s hyped up to be, huh?”
I glance up at him.
“Didn’t expect you to remember.”
He shrugs. “Hard not to. It’s the kind of day people either celebrate or run from.”
“Guess I’m the second kind.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
I go back to chewing, the warmth of the sandwich sitting heavy in my chest. I’m too aware of him standing there, not looking away. The quiet stretches, not quite uncomfortable. Just full.
I nod toward the room. “So what’s the deal with this place? Doesn’t really scream long-term.”
He pushes off the counter and rinses his hands under the tap.
“Rainer lets me stay here. He owns the building. Said if I showed up in the garage on time and didn’t trash the place, I could crash here for now.”
“So... foster care, but with tools and engine grease.”
“Pretty much. No caseworker though, which is a plus.”
I smirk, before taking another bite. The last one. I chew slower, letting it linger.
“And the grilled cheese? That your way of saying happy birthday?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m already rating it five stars.”
“You’re not the first girl to say that to me.” He gives me that bad boy grin that makes the heat sear between my thighs.
“You mean about your cooking?”
“No… about the overall experience.”
I shake my head, but the smile slips through before I can stop it.
When I finish the sandwich, Zane pushes off the counter. He moves slowly, eyes on me as he crosses the room.
The plate rests on my lap, my fingers curled tighter around the edge than they need to be. Something snags in my chest when his eyes find mine and hold, because there’s nothing soft in them.
The way he looks at me tears through clothing and scrapes straight to skin.
This isn’t curiosity. This is possession.
He drags his stare across my mouth, down my throat, then lower, his attention sweeping over my body as if he’s already memorized every place he plans to touch.
Heat builds under my skin, spills through my chest, coils tight and induces the throbbing between my thighs. I fight the urge to squirm. I don’t want him to see the effect he has on me. But my body betrays me anyway.
Wet.
Wanting.
And I hate myself for feeling every single second of it.
He takes the plate from my hands, fingers grazing mine on the way.
The contact is barely anything, but it sets me off. Heat settles deep in my pussy. I feel the clench hit hard, sudden and aching, my thighs pressing together to chase the pressure.
I sit pretending I’m not unraveling under the weight of his touch.
Pretending he hasn’t already pulled every reaction from my body without even trying.
Then he smirks.
A slow, filthy twist of his mouth, smug and knowing. The kind of smirk that says he caught the way my thighs pressed together. That he knows exactly where my mind went, because he’s the one who dragged it there.
He turns and walks to the sink.
The water hits steel, it’s loud, but that’s not what keeps me frozen. His shirt pulls across his back, every muscle shifting beneath the fabric. My eyes drop lower. His ass fills out those jeans in a way that should come with a warning label. Firm. Perfect. Built to be grabbed.
What the hell was I thinking, staying here? Alone. With him. Looking the way he does. Every inch of me is on fire and he hasn’t laid a hand on me. Please God, don’t let me do something fucking stupid.
He shuts off the tap and grabs a towel from the bench, wiping his hands.
The fabric’s rough and stained, the kind of thing that’s been used too many times and washed too few.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look at me until he’s done.
“I’ve got shit to finish in the workshop,” he says. “I’ll be back later.” He nods toward a door on the left. “Shower’s through there.” His eyes drag across the room, landing on the mattress. “You can take the bed.”
“I’m fine on the couch.”
His jaw flexes. “It wasn’t a fucking suggestion, Sky.”
“Why do you care where I sleep?”
“Because that couch will fuck your back up worse than I ever could.”
My breath stutters, but I can’t pull my eyes off him. I shift without meaning to.
His eyes watch me.
Tracking the way my chest lifts. The way I swallow like it might kill me.
Every inch of me burns.
I try to mask it, force my body still, but the damage is already done.
I hold his stare. “Then take the bed.”
“I don’t need it,” he says.
“You think I do?”
He steps forward. Not enough to touch me, but enough that I feel it.
That shift in the air, the heat that spikes between us.
“You’re exhausted,” he says. “Don’t pretend you’re not.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
His jaw ticks, and I can see that I’m getting to him.
“Just take the fucking bed, Skylar.”
He holds the stare for one breath too long. Before turning and walking out the door.
The mattress dips beneath me as I sit cross-legged on top of the blanket, pages of math homework stretched out across my thighs.
Calculus.
Useless numbers swimming in and out of focus. What the hell is the point of solving X when I can’t solve where I’ll be sleeping tomorrow night? I’ve got no address. No plan. School ends, and then what the fuck do I do?
My thoughts splinter. Algebra fades. The lines on the page blur.
I haven’t solved a single problem in fifteen minutes. Maybe longer.
Not since Zane stepped into the shower and took every rational thought with him.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
But I am.
Zane.
Naked under that stream.
Hands dragging through his hair. Head tipped back. Water pouring over every inch of him. Soap gliding over the ridges of his stomach. Steam curling around his chest. His skin slick, veins flexing with every movement.
I picture it all.
My lips part, and I don’t realize it until I drag my teeth across the bottom one.
I press my thighs together; the ache blooms fast.
The water stops.
I should pretend I’m asleep when he comes out here.
But the bed smells too much of him. It’s in the pillow, in the blanket. That grease and grit smell that clings to his skin after a full day under the hood of some busted engine. It crawls under my skin and settles there. And because of that, I can’t fucking focus.