Chapter Six #2
My fingers curl into his shoulders, gripping hard. My body leans in—instinct, not choice—chasing the slow burn.
He’s good. Devastatingly good. But something is missing.
I feel it like a shadow under the pleasure. No spark of recognition. No shared history. This is clean. Easy. A perfect stranger who knows nothing about the wreckage inside me.
This should feel like freedom. Instead, it feels…empty.
When he finally eases back, his lips linger for a moment. His hands slide down my arms, find my hands, lace our fingers for one suspended second. Then he lets go.
I hear footsteps retreat—unhurried, same as they came.
I stand frozen. Lips tingling, swollen. Chest heaving in shallow bursts. Skin buzzing where he touched.
Who was that?
Curiosity flickers, bright and unbidden, in my mind. But another question forms that’s louder, sharper. A question that sinks into my bones.
Why does a kiss that perfect leave me feeling…nothing?
I don’t have much time to fully process these questions before I hear footsteps coming at me fast—too fast. Then the scent of cedar and rain slam into me, wrapping around my lungs until my chest seizes.
Scott.
He’s right there. Close enough that his heat licks my skin before he even touches me. His breathing saws, rough, uneven, like he’s been running full-out. Or like he’s ravenous.
“My turn,” he rasps, voice scraped raw.
His hands capture my face—strong, unyielding, thumbs pressing under my jaw like he’s locking me exactly where he wants me. No room to escape. No room to think.
“I need you.” The words vibrate against my mouth, low and feral.
Then his lips crash into mine. Hard. Hungry. No preamble.
Everything else vanishes. The world shrinks to the brutal press of his mouth, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow raking my chin, the way his arms band around me and yank me flush against him until I feel every rigid inch of his body molding to mine.
His tongue pushes in—demanding, stroking deep—and I taste salt, heat, and something darker, something that’s all him.
I open wider on instinct, meeting him stroke for stroke, chasing the invasion like I’ll die if I don’t.
A growl rumbles in his chest. It vibrates through me, settles low in my belly, and lights me up.
My fingers twist into his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.
I arch into him. My hips rolling forward until the thick, insistent ridge of him presses right where I ache most. A shock of need spears through me, sharp and sweet, and a moan tears out of my throat before I can stop it.
He answers with a rough sound, cups my face tighter, angles me so he can go deeper.
His teeth catch my bottom lip—sharp enough to sting.
Then his tongue soothes the bite in a slow, deliberate drag that makes my knees buckle.
I whimper into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him, and everything inside me knots tighter: grief, want, years of buried ache unraveling at once.
Muscle memory takes over. My body remembers him even if my mind fights it—remembers how to tilt, how to give, how to take. I press up on my toes, chasing more, drowning in the slick heat of his tongue, the way his hands slide down to grip my waist like he’ll never let go.
When he finally wrenches back, the separation rips through me like tearing flesh. Cold air hits my swollen lips. My pulse thunders in my ears, my skin buzzing, every nerve raw and alive like they were the last time we kissed.
He stays close, breath fanning my mouth. “Kiss whoever you want,” he murmurs, so quiet it’s only for me. “That won’t change a damn thing.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left trembling.
My heart slams against my ribs. My lips tingle, my body still arched toward the space where he used to be.
Why does he still wreck me like this?
“Blindfolds off, everyone!” Miranda’s voice cuts sharp through the haze in my head.
I yank the cloth away and blink hard against the sudden glare. My eyes adjust in quick, stinging flashes.
The circle stares back. Zayne’s grin is lazy, entertained.
Emily’s lips are swollen, her gaze still dazed and faraway.
Valerie stands statue-still, chin high, eyes scanning every face like she’s tallying points.
Scott—shoulders squared, arms loose at his sides—locks eyes with me. Composed. Too composed.
Then I see them.
Two new bodies in the ring. A woman with long legs and sharp angles, radiating confidence in a sheer beach coverup over a hot pink string bikini. But it’s the man beside her who stops my breath.
Light brown hair catches the sun, hazel eyes steady and knowing. A body built from discipline, not vanity. The second his gaze finds mine, my chest cinches tight.
Him. My mystery kisser.
I trace the shape of his mouth, the patient curve of his smile—the same unhurried intention I felt when those lips covered mine, slow and deliberate, like he had forever to savor. A kiss that shouldn’t still echo inside me. But it does.
“Everyone, meet our wild cards—Ava and Damon,” Miranda purrs. “They’ve been playing along in today’s challenge and will be joining us as contestants.”
Gasps and murmurs ripple throughout. But I can barely hear them.
Scott’s stare burns at the edge of my vision—unmoving, fixed on me. Not on Damon. Just me. Like the rest of the deck dissolved.
The look steals the air from my lungs. It isn’t rage but rather something quieter. Darker. Like a door swinging shut on something fragile.
Then, slowly, his mouth curves into a knowing grin.
Damn him.
“Since they’re new,” Miranda continues, “they each get to pick someone for a one-on-one date tonight.”
Damon’s eyes flick between Scott and me. Not threatened but rather curious. Assessing.
The group starts to scatter as Damon walks straight to me.
“Lyla.” His voice is warm, smooth. He lifts my hand with easy confidence, pressing a slow kiss to my knuckles. The gesture surprises me. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“N-nice to meet you, too.”
His smile deepens, like he caught the stutter in my pulse. “Would you join me for dinner tonight?”
The deck falls silent. I feel Scott before I see him—heat rolling at my back, presence sharpening every inch of space. When I glance over, he hasn’t moved. But his eyes have darkened. Focused. Tracking the way Damon’s fingers still curl around mine.
After Scott’s kiss, the way his mouth claimed me, after his growled I need you still vibrates in my ears—I need air. Distance. Anything to break the pull.
I force myself to really look at Damon.
He’s handsome and gives off an energy that feels safe, uncomplicated, like solid ground after years of quicksand. He’s a man who makes a decision and stands by it. He’s possibility.
If there’s even a sliver of a chance I can move forward, build something clean and uncomplicated—something that doesn’t carve me open every time—I have to take it.
If saying yes to Damon creates distance from the gravitational pull Scott still exerts—yanking me back every damn time—then I need that distance.
Love can grow. With time. With deliberate choice.
I inhale, trying to steady myself.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The word lands solid in my chest, anchoring me.
Scott’s laugh is low, sharp, humorless, as if it were a blade wrapped in velvet. Every hair on my arms rises.
Then he moves. Not fast but deliberate. Inevitable.
He closes the gap until I can feel the heat radiating off him, until I can smell the faint salt of his skin and the dark edge of his musk.
His hand captures my wrist—firm, unyielding, unmistakably possessive.
The deck around us goes eerily quiet, like the world is holding its breath for this moment.
He doesn’t look at Damon. Only me.
His voice drops to gravel and smoke, pitched for my ears only. “Don’t forget you were in my arms five minutes ago, little one.”
His grip tightens around my wrist. Not enough to cause pain but to certainly get the message across that he isn’t exactly thrilled.
My skin flushes hot, traitorous heat pooling low in my belly.
For one unguarded heartbeat, something feral flashes in his eyes—raw hunger, sharp dislike, almost jealousy, and a flicker of pain—before he schools his expression.
His jaw flexes. Every muscle coils like he’s two seconds from dragging me against him and claiming what he thinks is still his.
He holds my stare another punishing second before letting go. “Enjoy your date.” His voice is smooth, almost polite.
But his eyes are anything but. They’re black fire, locked on me, promising. And that promise trails down my spine, a shiver I can’t suppress.
For one moment, the air turns syrup thick, suffocating.
Then—
“Hey, Lyla.”
Emily’s voice cuts through, artificially bright, like we’re debating drink orders instead of witnessing this detonation.
“Can you come help me with sunscreen?”
The tension fractures just enough for me to feel like I can breathe again.
I nod, grateful, and let her loop her arm through mine, already pulling me down the stairs, toward the pool deck below.
Behind us, the tension doesn’t disappear. It coils tighter. Waiting. And deep in my gut, I know with bone-deep certainty this isn’t close to finished.
Scott
The second Lyla breathes yes to Damon’s invitation, something in my chest doesn’t crack. It fucking detonates.
She’s going on a date with him.
After the way she melted against me—lips parting, body arching, that soft, greedy sound she makes when she’s already half-gone.
I turn and stalk away before the instinct to drag her back into my arms overrides every shred of sense. Before I give the cameras something explosive—and irreversible.
The gym is blessedly empty.
Perfect.
I can’t touch her right now. Can’t fix this mess with my hands or my mouth the way every screaming cell in my body demands. So I wrap my knuckles, the tape biting into skin, and channel it all into the heavy bag.
I start slow. Controlled.
Then faster. Harder.
Crack.
Her choice echoes in my skull. Damon’s cool certainty, the way he looked at her like he already owned the space beside her in bed.
Crack.
I know he kissed her during the challenge. He wouldn’t have asked her otherwise. But did she make that same breathless little moan—the one that has my cock stand at attention?
Crack.
I slam harder than I should. Pain shoots up my arm, bright and welcome, yanking me out of this mental spiral.
“Fuck,” I snarl, the word ripping out.
I brace my forehead against the bag, chest heaving, forcing the beast within back under. This is a dating show. She’s supposed to explore options. As she fucking should. But logic doesn’t stop my blood from boiling at the thought of his hands on her. His mouth. His anything.
I can’t fight this the caveman way—not without torching my shot. Not without ruining my chance at getting Lyla to hear the truth. I have to play their game. Rebuild the trust I shattered. Prove I’m not a man she can’t just love, but also rely on, again.
I straighten, my jaw locked so tight my teeth ache.
As much as I’d love to tell this Damon guy to fuck off, I can’t. So for now, I’m punching this bag—and imagining it was him.
The gym door creaks open behind me. Footsteps quickly follow.
I don’t turn immediately. When I do, Damon’s framed in the doorway like he owns the fucking villa.
The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows. His hair slicked back. Hands in his pockets. He’s calm, almost nonchalant.
“Quite the healthy outlet,” he observes, voice smooth as silk over steel.
I roll my shoulders, crack my neck. “Got something to say?”
He steps inside, letting the door click shut—soft, deliberate. The sound lands like a gauntlet.
“She said yes to dinner.” His statement is flat. Factual. As if I didn’t watch the whole goddamn thing.
I stay silent.
He tilts his head. “And the entire time, she was fighting not to look at you. Even after the word left her mouth.”
“You got the date,” I grit out. “What’s your point?”
“Something’s been nagging at me.” He meets my eyes—cool, assessing. Calculating. “You’re the ex, aren’t you?”
I don’t deny it.
He nods once, like the final puzzle piece snapped in. “That explains…everything.”
“Explains what?” I lower my voice an octave, bracing.
He doesn’t rush. Just studies me, no doubt measuring whether this conversation is worth the risk of my fist.
“You overwhelm her,” he says finally. “That’s exactly why she said yes to me. Because I’m not you.”
My next breath is razor-thin.
“So what? You think playing the safe, chill guy automatically wins you brownie points?” The words come out rough-edged.
“I think she wants to know what it feels like to breathe around someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s one wrong move from destruction.” He shrugs. “Someone who doesn’t crowd her the way you do.”
I take a single furious step forward, closing the gap until I can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, nothing like the sweat and heat I want to bury myself in with her.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tense. Just holds my stare.
“You’ve had one staged kiss and not even five minutes of conversation,” I growl, voice scraping gravel. “You don’t know her.”
Not the way her pulse jumps under my thumb. Not the sounds she makes in her sleep.
“No,” he agrees, infuriatingly even. “But I will. And I’m looking forward to every second of learning her.”
I curl my hands into fists at my sides. The urge to slam him into the wall—to wipe that smug, calm certainty off his face has— me on edge.
He turns toward the door. “She deserves someone who doesn’t make her wait for the other shoe to drop.”
I’m about ready to snap this fucker like a twig.
He glances back, eyes sharp as a blade. Then he’s gone.
I stand there, tape creaking, pulse a slow, dangerous drum.
Every instinct screams to find her, pin her to the nearest wall, and remind her exactly how right we are. How she fits so perfectly in my life. How no one else will ever touch that place inside my heart that only she can open.
But I don’t move. Because the bastard’s right about one thing. She said yes.
I hate it, but she only said yes to dinner. Not forever.
So when she walks back from her date with him—flushed, conflicted, maybe even a little guilty from whatever polite spark he tried to ignite—I’ll be waiting. And this time, I won’t let logic stop me from showing her every filthy, tender reason she should be mine.