8-REAGAN #2
“You can tell me anything you want. After tonight, it’s like we never happened. Tell me you killed someone for all you care.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I believe that.” A laugh rolled from him, and his palm hit my knee. “You’re far too fucking innocent to kill someone.”
My eyes narrowed. “You don’t know that. I could.”
The warmth from his hand persisted. “Sure, you could.” The pause between breaths told me he was fighting a smile. “Sure you could,” he repeated, but like there was an interest that had nothing to do with my nonexistent criminal record.
I nudged his knee with mine. “You think I’m harmless?”
“Oh, no!” he chuckled. “Don’t push me with your knee.” His hand slid a little farther up my thigh, forcing me to swallow from my dry throat. “I think you’re dangerous in all the right ways.”
“How so?”
His gaze dipped to my lips, unapologetic. “Because you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
The room slowly shrank around us. My pulse kicked up, thick in my chest as he inched closer. “You sit here,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek, “and keep looking at me like that, opening up like I’m someone you’ve known longer than ten minutes—and you expect me not to touch you?”
“I didn’t say that,” I whispered.
His laugh was quiet and warm. “Then let’s play a little.”
“Play?” I echoed.
“Mm-hmm.” His thumb dragged across my lower lip, slow enough to create a twist low in my stomach. “You tell me something real. Something only I get to hear, and I’ll tell you what I want to do with you when I finally get my hands where you clearly want them.”
“What do you mean by real?”
“You tell me,” he countered, leaning in until his mask nearly brushed my forehead. “Because I’m giving you exactly what you asked for—attention.”
I breathed out slowly, the honesty slipping through before I could stop it. “I don’t remember the last time someone made me feel like I was the only person who could make them happy, like I wasn’t replaceable.”
“Well, Wildflower,” he murmured. “I plan on fixing that tonight.”
“Fix it, huh?” I said, raising a brow. “That’s quite a bold promise.”
“You like bold.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.” His fingers toyed with the hem of my dress. “Your body’s been telling on you for the last ten minutes.”
“It has not.”
“Oh, believe me, it has.” His knuckles dragged lightly across my thigh. “You get real still when you want something. Like you’re waiting.”
I tried to ignore the heat rising up my neck. “Once again, you’re sounding awfully sure of yourself.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not sure of myself.” He leaned in closer, eyes locked on mine. “I’m sure of you.”
A challenge flickered in my chest. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”
“Mm.” He tapped my knee with a single finger. “I think you pretend to be difficult to protect yourself, but the second someone actually gives you attention,” His gaze dropped to my mouth. “you melt.”
“I don’t melt,” I shot back, even though my voice softened at the end.
“I could have sworn I was on this bed with a snowman, quickly melting from the heat growing between us.”
My lip pulled up involuntarily. “No.”
With a gentle hook of his finger, I nudged my chin up. “Then what do you call this?”
My pulse stuttered. “Annoyance.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Wow,” I said dryly even though I was having fun with him. “You really know how to charm a girl.”
“Funny,” he murmured, “you keep talking, but you’re leaning closer every time you open your mouth.”
I blinked, suddenly aware of how little space separated us. “I’m not leaning.”
“Sure.” His hand dropped to my thigh again. “Then back up.”
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. And had no desire to.
His eyebrow lifted behind the mask, smug.
“That’s what I thought.” Fang’s smirk lingered under his mask as he watched me struggle for composure.
Then something in his eyes shifted—calculating.
He eased back onto one elbow, giving me a little extra space.
“Oh?” he drawled. “Now you’re quiet. That usually means you’re thinking.
” He tilted his head, studying me like I was the one under the microscope. “Go on then.”
My brows pulled together. “Go on with what?”
“With whatever’s running through that dangerous little mind.” He tapped his temple lightly. “Show me.”
Show me? My mouth dropped. “I thought I was the guest here, and you want me to entertain you now?”
He gave a soft laugh and settled onto his back. “No. I want you to make me work for it.”
That hit low in my stomach. “And what makes you think I want control?”
“Because,” he said, rolling toward me again, closer. “You’ve been fighting me for it all night. Might as well give you a turn.” His dark eyebrows, dark eyelashes and green eyes were easy to memorise in the moment. “Go on,” he repeated. “Tease me. Unless you’re scared.”
I scoffed. “Scared? Of you?” In reality, I was scared. I was scared of putting myself out there. Scared of someone seeing me for me. Scared of feeling free until someone rips my wings off. I was scared of this.
“Mm.” He looked me over, lazy and unbothered. “You talk big, but the moment I ask you to make the first move, you stall.”
Fine. Two could play. I leaned forward, bracing one hand on his chest, deliberately entering his space in the same way he’d been quietly invading my mind. His eyes tracked every inch but didn’t flinch when I touched him.
“You want me to tease you?” I asked softly.
He hummed. “I want you to try.”
My lips curved. “And what happens if I do?”
His voice dropped. “Then I get to decide what to do with you after.”
A thrill shot through me. The thought of Fang gripping me tight and holding me under him, over him and against the back of the couch flashed through me in an instant.
Reaching out slowly to brush a nonexistent piece of lint from the sleeve of his shirt and letting my fingers drag down his arm just a little longer than necessary, I whispered, “Well.” My nails found the skin along his torso, and the faintest shudder came through.
“Sounds like you’re assuming I’m any good at teasing. ”
His breath hitched, subtle but there. “Wildflower,” he said, fingertips pressing deeper into my thigh, “you’re already doing it.”
I smirked. “Then maybe you should be nervous. Or should I?”
He let out a low laugh, shaking his head as if I’d pleasantly surprised him.
His hand rose higher and higher. I had missed the moments of it moving, because suddenly the lace of my cheeky underwear became alive the moment his fingers brushed the hem—barely a touch.
He didn’t push or take what was expected.
Just waited. Making every nerve in my body light up.
His voice was low enough that it vibrated against my palm on his chest. “Should you be nervous?” A slow smile curved under his mask. “You don’t want me to keep going?”
“I didn’t say that,” I breathed, though my body was doing everything in its power to expose me.
“No,” he said, fingertips tracing the edge of the fabric with maddening patience, “but your breathing did.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I didn’t pull back. Instead, I let my hand slide up, fingers brushing the side of his balaclava. His eyes darkened.
His hand—still impossibly slow—splaying wide as if mapping me, taking a handful of me in. Fang guided me closer over the bedding. Daring me, but I went willingly.
My thighs brushed his jeans as my fingers dipped behind the top of his pants. The button weaved out with ease.