Prologue #2
Even that ridiculous navy and plaid skirt can’t hide the shape of her body.
The soft swell of her hips and ass as she leans over to get a pen out of her bag makes my fingers twitch with the sudden, overwhelming need to feel them in my hands.
I imagine sliding my hands up her thighs, over those tall white socks she’s wearing.
Her skirt would slide up, and my fingers would grip her hips so roughly that she’d wear my marks for days.
But I’d make it up to her by burying my face between her thighs.
I want to taste her. I’ve never touched another woman, and I’ve certainly never had my tongue anywhere near one, but I have a vivid enough imagination to know what I want.
My mouth is watering because I know she’s soft and sweet, and I know I’ll never get enough of her.
I need to calm down.
But it’s impossible because all I can think about is stepping out from my hiding spot. I’d close the distance between us in two strides, cupping her hips and lifting her straight out of that chair so I can crush my mouth against hers. I want those soft thighs wrapped around my waist.
Ten years.
Ten years without her.
Ten years of wondering if she was alive, if she was safe, if someone else was touching her the way I should have been.
The thought alone makes my jaw tighten.
She should have been mine this whole time.
We should have grown up together.
I should have been the one walking her home from school.
The one stealing kisses on her front porch swing.
The one learning every secret expression on her face that no one else could read.
Instead, I got one traumatic memory and a decade of rage.
She’s sitting so close, looking like something that walked right out of my dreams.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
One slow step forward.
Just one.
The urge to reach for her is so strong it feels physical, like my muscles are fighting against me.
I want to feel her skin beneath my hands.
I want to bury my face in her hair and finally learn what she smells like.
I want to wrap her arms around my neck and promise her between kisses that no one will ever touch her again.
No one will ever hurt her again.
My fingers flex slowly back into fists.
Control yourself, Vale.
I drag in a breath that scrapes my lungs, and I know I need to watch myself because her head perks up like she heard me. I know it’s impossible, but I swear she seems aware that I’m here, or at the very least that someone is here watching her.
Then I reach into the pocket of my hoodie, and my fingers close around the soft fabric that I’ve held onto for a decade.
The pink fabric with tiny white hearts scattered around it is faded now from years of being carried everywhere with me.
It fell out of her hair the night her parents were murdered. Everything moved so fast. One minute I was covering her mouth so the person who killed her parents wouldn’t hear her cries and the next sirens screamed and strangers pulled her away from me.
I rub my thumb across the fabric slowly.
No one will ever take you away from me again, baby.
She pauses suddenly, her pen stills against the page, and then she lifts her head.
Livy’s eyes sweep the room again.
Toward the exact spot where I’m concealed. My pulse jumps. Even though it’s impossible, it feels like she’s staring into my soul. It feels like she heard every single thought I’ve had about her.
That’s right, baby. You know I’m watching you.
We’re going to be together. I can promise that, and I have never broken a promise I’ve made to her. Even if she wasn’t there to hear it.
She stares for a moment like she can feel something she can’t quite see, and then she exhales softly and stands abruptly.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She walks toward the book stacks.
Toward me.
I slip deeper into the aisle just as she appears.
She doesn’t see me, and I realize she’s pushing up on her tiptoes as she reaches up, pulling a book from the shelf.
My heart is still racing as she flips through a few pages before walking back to her table. For a moment everything is quiet again, but then Livy freezes.
Her eyes lift slowly, purposefully, and zero in on the case where I’m hiding.
Her voice is barely louder than a whisper.
“Not again… please.” She knows someone’s watching her, and the plea that leaves her lips makes me feel like she’s been running from someone for a very long time.
Someone who isn’t me.
My girl’s words hit me like a punch to the chest. My little songbird’s voice is so sweet it has chills running over my body. The thought of her gasping for air when I fill her for the first time has my dick hardening in my jeans, and I’m a fucking piece of shit for that.
I rub my hand over my face because I can’t screw this up no matter how much I need her.
Her safety comes first, then her, then me.
I silently groan at the dirty way my mind works.
I’ve spent my entire adult life searching for Livingston Rhodes, and I’m about to botch this whole plan because I want to know what she feels like naked under me.
She shoves her papers into her bag quickly.
Her chair scrapes, and it echoes through the archaic building. I hear the zipper on her bag pulling, but my eyes never leave her pretty heart-shaped face. Her eyes dart around the library one more time before she rushes toward the exit.
Then she’s gone, and I feel empty inside once again. I realize that I haven’t felt truly alive until tonight.
I stay hidden behind the shelves for several long seconds after the door closes behind my girl, and the fact that I can’t follow her is the greatest tragedy I can think of at the moment.
My fingers tighten around her scrunchie in my pocket. Is what I feel for her obsession? Is it love? Toxic? Unhinged? I don't really give a shit what anyone calls it, because it's all I know and no one will change it.
Someone else has been watching her. She knows it, which means whoever has been searching for her might already be closer than I thought.