Chapter 3
THREE
LUKE
Silas’ place is… not what I expect.
It’s quiet. Clean. Not sterile, but intentional—like everything has a reason for being where it is. Dark floors, neutral walls, minimal furniture. The kind of apartment that looks like it gets vacuumed regularly, which is already a little suspicious.
I clock all of it in about three seconds—and immediately decide to test the limits.
I don’t take my boots off.
Not because I forgot. Because I want to see if he’ll say something, and I’m a little bratty by nature.
He doesn’t. He sets his keys down, turns toward the kitchen, and gestures with a nod. “You want a drink?”
“Yeah,” I say easily. “Surprise me.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and the moment he does, my curiosity goes feral.
I wander toward the shelves, hands tucked into my pockets at first, just looking.
Not touching. Yet. History books jump out immediately—spines worn, pages actually read.
Military stuff. World War II. Some other history things I barely remember from school.
A few spines with a different language, that tracks, he is obviously fluent in Spanish.
While I only know how to ask for a piece of paper, the only part of it that stuck from high school.
Then I spot the football books. Playbooks. Biographies of some of the best players. Old Super Bowl highlight reels on DVD.
Huh.
Something in my chest does a weird little flip.
That’s cool. That’s…something in common.
I immediately shove that thought in the trash where it belongs. This is a one-night stand. I am not bonding over shared interests. Absolutely not.
I reach out and pull one book halfway off the shelf as curiosity gets the better of me. If I were a cat, I’d already be dead to be honest.
Behind me, I feel it—the shift in the air. As though I’ve crossed an invisible line.
Silas clears his throat. “You’re very comfortable.”
I glance over my shoulder, innocent. “Am I?”
“Most people don’t start… touching things.”
That’s my cue to lighten the mood.
I slide the book back and lift my hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I was just making sure.”
“Making sure of what?” he asks, crossing the space with a glass in each hand.
I take the one he offers—whiskey—our fingers brushing. Deliberate. I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens.
“Serial killer books,” I say casually, taking a sip. “True crime obsession is a red flag. I don’t hook up with guys who romanticize murder.”
He blinks. Once. Then twice.
Then his mouth quirks, just barely. “You might be a little demente.”
I brighten immediately. “Thank you.”
That does it.
Something shifts in his expression—control loosening just enough for a real smile to break through. Not big. Not soft. Just a slow tilt of his mouth that hits me square in the chest like a sucker punch.
Butterflies. Actual, traitorous butterflies.
Rude.
I take another sip of whiskey and mentally pluck the wings off each and every one of them. Stomp them out. Set them on fire. This is a one-night stand, not a meet-cute. I am not catching feelings in a man’s living room surrounded by history books and football crap.
Absolutely not.
Silas watches me over the rim of his glass, eyes warm now, amused in a way that feels dangerously personal. Like he’s actually enjoying me instead of just tolerating my chaos.
“Do you know what demente means?” he asks, full amusement threading his voice.
I shift, rolling my shoulders like I didn’t just internally commit butterfly murder. “Nope.” I take another sip of whiskey and grin at him. “But it sounded hot.”
That smile of his deepens, just a fraction. “It means insane.”
I hum thoughtfully, setting my glass down. “Yeah, that probably tracks.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and unguarded, and it does something very rude to my chest. His gaze lingers on me, like he’s reassessing the situation.
“Good to know you’re self-aware,” he says.
“Oh, I’m extremely aware,” I reply easily. “I just choose not to let it stop me.”
His eyes darken again, that earlier intensity sliding back into place like it never left.
“Clearly.”
“Relax,” I say lightly. “If I were actually insane, I’d be alphabetizing your shelves.”
His huff of laughter is quiet but real. “That would be a dealbreaker.”
“Good to know.” I grin and tap my glass against his. “See? We’re learning so much about each other.”
His gaze lingers a second too long, and for half a heartbeat, the room feels smaller. Charged.
I immediately decide that’s enough of that.
I turn my body just slightly, invading his space again on my terms, all easy confidence and zero introspection.
“So,” I say, tilting my head, “are we going to keep standing around pretending this is a book club… or are you going to do something about the way you’ve been looking at me since I first saw you? ”
There. Back where we belong.
Silas’s gaze drops to my mouth again, slower this time. Intentional.
“Oh, I plan to do something about it,” he says, “hermoso.”
Before I can respond, he reaches for my glass, takes it without asking, fingers firm around the rim, and turns just long enough to set his and mine on the side table behind us. Careful. Precise.
The second his hands are free, he’s back in my space. One hand slides to my jaw, grip solid, thumb pressing just enough to tilt my head back. His mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not gentle or exploratory like it was in the club. It’s teeth and heat and intent—his lips moving hard against mine, biting just enough to make me gasp before his tongue pushes in, claiming the space as though he expects me to give it to him.
I do.
My hands come up instinctively, fisting in his shirt, keeping him close because I don’t want even an inch between us. He groans into my mouth, deep and rough, like he’s been holding that sound back all night.
The kiss turns messy fast—nips at my lower lip, a sharp tug that has my breath breaking, his tongue sweeping in again like he’s taking exactly what he wants. He tastes like whiskey and control and bad decisions.
Those damn butterflies try to resurrect themselves, but I squash them again.
I tell myself it’s just lust. Just chemistry. Just the way he kisses like he can’t get close enough fast enough. It’s hot.
Nothing more.
Absolutely nothing I’m going to think about later.
I kiss him back harder, biting, matching the heat because this is what I came here for. Not conversation. Not connection.
He doesn’t loosen his grip when I bite back.
If anything, it makes him still.
That pause is deliberate. Calculated. Like he’s deciding exactly how much leash to give me.
I smile into the kiss, slow and smug, letting my teeth drag over his lower lip just enough to be irritating. Just enough to poke the bear. My hands release his shirt and slide up his chest, light, teasing—nothing like the way he’s holding me.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I murmur, breathless and very aware of how close his mouth still is to mine.
Bad idea? Fuck yes.
His jaw tightens. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers firm, unforgiving, as they thread into the hair there, tipping my head back exactly where he wants it.
“Careful, hermoso,” he says quietly. “I might not be a serial killer, but I have control tonight.”
I swallow. Heat curls low in my stomach, sharp and immediate. God, I love that tone—the one that says he’s absolutely in control and doesn’t need to prove it. And I am definitely filing away that word he keeps calling me for later.
My hands tighten in his shirt anyway, because apparently I don’t learn. “Sounds like a challenge,” I say lightly, even as my pulse trips over itself.
His grip doesn’t change. Doesn’t loosen. If anything, his fingers flex once at the back of my neck, a quiet reminder of exactly where I am.
“Not a challenge,” he says calmly. “An observation.”
His mouth brushes mine again, not kissing—hovering. Close enough that I can feel his breath, smell the whiskey still lingering on him. It makes my knees weak in a way I absolutely refuse to unpack.
“You want to be a brat,” he continues, voice low and even. “That’s fine.”
Then his thumb presses under my jaw, lifting my chin just a fraction higher. Forcing my attention exactly where he wants it.
“But don’t confuse that with you being in charge.”
My breath comes out shaky. Traitorous.
I smile anyway, because of course I do. “And here I thought you liked that I’m trouble.”
His mouth tilts into something dark and satisfied.
“Oh, I do,” he says. “I just like it better when problema listens.”
“Did you just call me a problem?”
He chuckles, and my dick hardens even more. “Problema means trouble.”
I want to ask what hermoso means, but I bite my tongue.
Something in my chest flips—hard—and I immediately squash it. Damn, how many times do I have to do that? No feelings. No reading into tone or intent. This is still just heat and chemistry and the way his hands make it very clear what he expects.
He kisses me again, slower this time, deliberate, like he’s proving a point.
There’s no rush in it. No desperation. Only pure control—his mouth moving against mine with purpose, his grip steady at the back of my neck, keeping me exactly where he wants me. I melt into it without meaning to, my bravado slipping the second he takes his time.
He breaks the kiss just enough to speak, forehead resting against mine. “You like to test limits,” he says quietly, and I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement.
I breathe out a laugh that’s more of a shudder. “I like to know where they are.”
His thumb strokes once, slow, at the base of my neck. A reward or a warning—I’m not sure which. “And once you find them?”
I tilt my head, brushing my mouth against his jaw. “Depends who’s holding them.”
That earns me a low sound from his chest. Approval, maybe. Or something close to it.
He shifts us without effort, guiding me back until my spine meets the wall. The movement is smooth. He doesn’t pin me—doesn’t need to because I sure as hell am not going anywhere.