Chapter 13 Sadie
THIRTEEN
SADIE
She woke up wrapped in the smell of warm spice and soap. She sighed happily and shifted closer, immediately confused when the pillow shifted back. That was when it dawned on her that pillows don’t breathe, snore quietly, or radiate body heat.
Her eyes snapped open, and she found herself sprawled over Quentin Ramos, who was looking way too comfortable for a guy unknowingly being used as human furniture. His arm was draped over her waist, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Oh my god.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe if she willed it hard enough, she’d wake up in her bed, not draped over a six-foot-something problem with a pretty face. Wake up, Sadie. This is just a deranged lucid dream.
She cracked one eye open, only to confirm that he was still there, still real, and still unfairly handsome. Okay, extraction plan. Slow and steady. If she just moved carefully—
Before she could finish that thought, Quentin did something much worse than simply existing beneath her. He shifted, exhaled a deep sigh, and then like a heat-seeking missile he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
She froze in place, staring at the couch cushion while panic and disbelief waged war in her chest. She had to get out of here. She wiggled. He tightened his grip. She wiggled again. He nuzzled into her shoulder with a soft sound, warm breath brushing her skin, like an affectionate golden retriever.
Sadie silently questioned the entire chain of choices that had led her to this moment. Every script read. Every smug smirk she’d tolerated. Every time she hadn’t shoved him off a cliff.
Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, Quentin stirred. His eyelashes fluttered. Of course they fluttered, like some kind of Disney prince waking up in a forest. His deep brown eyes blinked open, unfocused for a second before locking onto hers.
A jolt of something traitorously electric shot through her, landing somewhere entirely inappropriate. Quentin blinked once. Then twice.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
She hated how hot that sounded, how everything about this moment felt hot, including the way her brain suddenly decided to play Careless Whisper at full volume.
She stared at him in horror. She had zero moral fiber. None. Just estrogen, poor judgment, and a frontal lobe that had completely clocked out.
“Ugh, get off me,” she said, though it came out breathier than she intended, her body doing a whole lot of writhing and very little actual escaping from the heat of him.
“You’re literally on top of me,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep, slow and sinful. His hand slid just slightly as he shifted, brushing the curve of her waist in a way that felt entirely too intentional for someone half-asleep.
That damn smile lingered. Half-lidded eyes, tousled hair, and that irritatingly perfect dent in his cheek when he smiled. She glared at him, but her heart wasn't in it. Mostly because her heart was busy trying to claw its way out of her chest and throw itself at him.
“You’re exhausting,” she said.
“You’re confusing,” he countered mildly, his gaze slow as it swept over her face. “One minute you hate me. The next minute you’re giving me… those eyes.”
“I have eyes,” she snapped. “What would you like me to do, leave them in the other room?”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, and when it came back up, it was loaded. Like he was debating whether to kiss her and risk the slap.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered, her breath catching.
“No,” he said, voice low and unapologetic.
She swallowed hard. “I can’t stand you,” she managed, clinging to her pride like it was the last life raft on a sinking ship. But even she didn’t believe it. And judging by the glint in his eye, neither did he.
“I can’t stand you back,” he murmured, gaze dropping to her lips again. The heat in his eyes sent a rush of something molten spiraling through her. Then, his voice dropped another octave. “Now come here.”
Her heart stuttered. “Why?” she asked, barely above a whisper, her voice all shaky breath.
His smirk deepened, full of dangerous promises. “Because I’m going to kiss you until you don’t hate me anymore.”
The space between them pulsed, humming with tension thick enough to drown in. That kiss wasn’t a threat, it was a guarantee. And the worst part was that she wanted it. She ached for it. Every cell in her body was already leaning into him, desperate and willing.
Rational thought tried to scream over the roar in her blood.
She should have pulled away. She should have said something mature and sensible.
Maybe even stood up and announced she needed water.
Or space. Or a therapist. But then his hands found her waist, broad palms settling like he owned her body.
He tugged her down, and she didn’t just let him.
She went willingly, eagerly, crashing into him.
His mouth met hers in a hungry, reckless kiss that tore the air straight from her lungs.
Her mind went blissfully blank. All that existed was the heat of his mouth, the feel of his body, the way he made her feel like a live wire sparking under every touch.
She kissed him back harder, fiercer, threading her fingers into his hair and tugging until he growled into her mouth. His hands slid down, one gripping at the curve of her hip, the other slipping lower, pulling her flush against him until there was no space left to think, only feel.
“God,” he whispered against her mouth, his voice thick with frustration, “you taste like strawberries.”
It sounded like the realization annoyed him, but instead of pulling away, his grip on her tightened, drawing her even closer.
Strawberries? Probably her chapstick. Who cared. His mouth was already on hers again, harder this time, deeper, like he wanted to climb inside her skin and stay there. Like he meant to kiss her until she forgot her own name and remembered only his.
She wanted to hate him. She should hate him. But the desire to ruin him, slowly and thoroughly with every kiss and gasp and grind, was so much louder. And she was already tumbling into that beautiful, reckless kind of madness that wore the mask of pleasure and felt like war.
When his tongue slid against hers, her whole body ignited. She moaned into his mouth, helpless and wild, her fingers clawing into his hair and tugging hard enough to draw a low, broken groan from deep in his chest. The sound rumbled through her, vibrating straight down to where she ached most.
She wrapped her legs around his hips, locking him in place. Her body was on fire, every inch of him against her like striking a match, every part of her he hadn’t touched yet throbbing in protest.
She wanted more. All of him. To burn everything to the ground and call it a draw.
Then he pulled back. The loss of his mouth made her blink, disoriented, her hands still fisted in his shirt. His forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little too hard, eyes searching each other’s faces like they were both suddenly aware of the edge they’d reached.
She swallowed, heart still racing, lips tingling. The room felt quieter now. Louder, somehow, too. What had she just done?
Quentin’s forehead stayed pressed to hers, his breathing rough, his eyes dark but different now. The hunger was still there, but there was something softer there now. Something careful.
A chill crept down her spine. Not because she hadn’t wanted it. Clearly, she had. But because wanting it changed everything. Because it made her vulnerable in ways that terrified her.
She eased back, just a few inches, enough to pretend she was in control. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said, her voice uneven.
His brow arched, calm and maddening. “You kissed me back.”
“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself,” she snapped, though her voice came out breathless, the words more tremble than bite. Her fists were still bunched in his shirt, clinging like her body hadn’t caught up with her brain.
“Do you really regret it?” he asked, quiet and steady, like he already knew the answer.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she muttered, forcing steel into her tone. “I still hate you.”
Quentin’s lips quirked, eyes flicking to her mouth like he was already thinking about round two. His breath hitched on a soft laugh, a sound that slid under her skin. “Want to try again and be sure?”
Yes! Her whole body screamed yes. Her blood was thunder in her ears, her skin tight and electric, aching for more.
But her brain shoved back, desperate to regain control.
Because it hadn’t just felt good. It had felt inevitable, like something snapping into place.
And that terrified her more than any kiss ever could.
“Now you’re pushing your luck,” she muttered, leaning back just enough to glare down at him. “I was half-asleep. You ambushed me. Basically a crime of opportunity.”
He tilted his head, amused, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “Sweetheart, you made it very clear you were wide awake.” His eyes dragged down her body, slow and scorching. “And very, very willing.”
It was infuriating how much she still wanted to kiss that smug, beautiful mouth again.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re so hellbent on hating me?” he asked. His voice was steady, almost gentle, which was rude considering his eyes were doing the opposite. They were sharp and searching, like he was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn’t agreed to hand him.
You got me fired from my first-ever set. The answer screamed in her head.
But she bit it back, let it rot behind clenched teeth, because he didn’t remember.
Why would he? To him, it was nothing: just another tantrum, another power trip, another day on a glittering Hollywood set.
But for her, that day had been everything.
Her first shot. Her dream cracked wide open and then shut just as fast.
So yes, she hated him. Or at least she wanted to. She had every reason to. But then there was that other part, the traitorous and weak part, that still wanted to kiss him again. The part that wanted to feel it again, deeper this time, rougher, until she couldn’t remember why she’d ever pulled away.
It was humiliating, really, the way her body betrayed her.
While her brain busied itself compiling a perfectly logical, well-evidenced argument outlining every reason Quentin Ramos was a beautiful, irredeemable bastard.
But her skin still tingled, and her pulse fluttered like a girl with a crush instead of a woman with a history.
She wasn’t twenty-one anymore. She wasn’t some starry-eyed intern with a borrowed kit and big dreams. She’d survived that fallout. She’d rebuilt. She was solid now.
But God, he made it so damn hard to hold a grudge when he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth watching.
“Seriously?” she asked finally, arching a brow, her voice bone-dry, acid-laced.
“Yes.” He didn’t blink.
“Just leave it,” she muttered, shoving herself off the couch. She needed to put actual distance between his body and hers, between the heat curling in her gut and the things she still wasn’t ready to say out loud.
He exhaled sharply behind her, the sound full of disbelief.
She stalked into the kitchen like it could save her, like the cool granite under her palms might siphon off the heat pooling low in her stomach. It was just a kiss, she told herself. Just one stupid, reckless kiss that didn’t mean anything.
But then she heard the rustle of movement behind her, boots being pulled on, the scuff of soles on hardwood.
She didn’t want to look. She did anyway.
He stood there with his hand on the knob, shoulders tight, jaw set like he was biting back something he’d decided not to say. Then he opened the door and left. No dramatic speech. No lingering glance. Just gone.
Sadie stood there, heart thudding, staring at the space he’d occupied seconds ago. She’d wanted him to leave. She just hadn’t expected it to sting that much when he actually did.