Chapter 21 #2
His hand finally settled—two fingers under my chin, lifting my face just enough to meet his eyes. Not rough. Not gentle. Precise.
“That,” he said quietly, “is you crossing into dangerous territory.”
“Is that a warning?” I asked, breath shallow.
His gaze dropped—to my mouth. Stayed there. “No,” he said. “That’s me already there.”
And then he kissed me.
It was a collision, pure and simple. His mouth slanted over mine, hot and demanding, bypassing polite exploration to go straight for the jugular.
His grip on my jaw tightened, possessive and unyielding, as he licked his way into my mouth with a confidence that made my knees buckle.
There was no asking, only taking—a hungry, sweeping invasion that tasted of frustration and a pent-up need so thick it choked the air between us.
I gasped against him, the sound swallowed whole as he angled his head to deepen the kiss, his stubble burning a delicious, abrasive path against my skin.
The fire sparked.
My hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space left, until I could feel the hard planes of his chest pressing against my breasts, the erratic thud of his heart matching my own.
He groaned low in his throat, a dark, rough sound that vibrated straight through me, and the control he’d been clinging to fractured.
His other hand clamped onto my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, pulling me flush against the ridge of his erection.
He didn't try to hide it; he let me feel exactly what I was doing to him, rocking his hips forward in a slow, deliberate grind that made my head fall back.
The flames licked higher.
He didn't let me retreat. He followed me down, his mouth leaving mine to trail a scorching path along my jaw, his teeth scraping the sensitive cord of my neck.
I was trembling, a fine sheen of sweat breaking over my skin as the heat inside me spiraled out of control.
His hand slid from my hip to my waist, then up, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast in a tease that was maddeningly light compared to the bruising pressure of his mouth on my throat.
I arched into him, a silent, desperate plea for more, for him to stop toying with me and finally touch me where I was aching, wet, and ready.
“You don’t get to disappear,” I managed to gasp out, my voice wrecked, “and then decide this.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes black with lust, his lips swollen and wet. “I’m not making a decision,” he growled, the sound scraping against my nerves. “I just did it.”
Then he kissed me again.
This time, it was an inferno. He devoured me, his tongue fucking into my mouth with a rhythm that made my thighs clench together.
His hand abandoned my breast to slide down, cupping my ass and lifting me until my feet left the ground.
I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, the friction against my core sending a shockwave of pleasure through me that bordered on pain.
He pinned me against the nearest surface, his hips driving into mine, hard and relentless.
There was no finesse left, only the raw, primal urge to consume and be consumed.
The air around us felt like it was burning, the oxygen thinning until I was dizzy, drunk on the taste of him and the sheer, overwhelming force of his desire.
I was burning alive.
Just as I reached the breaking point, ready to tear the clothes from his body and let him ruin me completely, he stopped.
He froze.
His mouth hovered a fraction of an inch from mine, his chest heaving against mine, his hand still gripping my ass like he never wanted to let go. The sudden absence of movement was jarring, the silence ringing in my ears louder than the roar of my own pulse.
His jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle twitching. “This,” he gritted out, his voice barely recognizable, “is me crossing it.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, trapped in the cage of his chest. “And this,” he continued, his voice cracking as he forced himself to ease me down, to step back and let the cool air rush in to blast my overheated skin, “is me stopping before we burn everything down.”
The distance was brutal, like a physical amputation, a sudden void where the pressure of him had been.
I stood there, breath sawing in and out of my lungs, skin buzzing with a violent, electric aftermath, acutely aware of the phantom heat he’d left behind.
My body was screaming for him to come back, a traitorous ache that made my knees weak.
"This doesn't happen again," he said, the words ground out like they physically hurt him.
I laughed, a low, breathless sound that scraped my throat. "You’re terrible at lying."
His eyes flashed, a dangerous spark that said he didn't appreciate the reminder. His thumb brushed my lower lip—once. Hard enough to sting. A threat and a restraint in equal measure, a silent warning that he was the only one allowed to draw this line.
"Get some sleep," he said, his voice rough, command warring with exhaustion. "It's already late."
Then he stepped away. And I didn’t fight him. I didn't beg. I stood my ground and let him go, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
When my phone buzzed in my pocket, Flint’s photo popped up on the screen with Deadline Daddy written across it.
I debated ignoring it just to prove a point.
Instead, I turned on my heel to head to my room, aware that Brewster had paused in the hall on the way to his office.
He watched me bypass him, his gaze a heavy, physical weight on my back. The phone buzzed again in my hand.
No way he missed that.
He didn't ask. I didn't share. The air between us was thick with unsaid accusations and jealousy that tasted like ash. Some lines, once crossed, didn’t need to be crossed twice to change everything—they just burned the bridge down.
I closed the bedroom door, leaning back against the wood as if it could hold me up.
The silence in here was different—heavy, expectant.
My body was still humming, a live wire of frustration and unsatisfied lust that made me want to scream or break something.
I looked at the phone in my hand, Deadline Daddy glowed like an accusation.
Answering a text was too passive. It would let me sit here and stew in the wreckage of what just happened with Brewster. I needed noise. I needed a distraction sharp enough to cut through the haze.
I hit call and pressed the phone to my ear, pacing the small space as it rang.
"Mallory."
His voice was low, rough around the edges, cutting through the line instantly. No preamble. No hello.
"What's wrong?"
Just two words. Flat. Direct. A slap in the face that knocked the air right out of my lungs.
It wasn't a question. It was a command, delivered with the absolute certainty of a man who knew the rhythm of my breathing better than I did. He heard the hitch in my throat, the slight tremor I couldn't hide, and he didn't bother with polite pleasantries. He just went straight for the wound.
The heat that had been suffocating me moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
My knees stopped trembling. The ghost of Brewster’s hands faded from my skin.
This was the reality check I needed. This was the man who actually knew me, who could read me like a tactical map even when I thought I wanted to hide.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to level out, pushing the Brewster-induced chaos into a box in the back of my mind. "Nothing," I said, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "Just a long day."
"Bullshit," Flint said. "Talk."