Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Afew weeks pass after my mother’s call, and nothing happens.
No follow-up.
No threats carried out.
No knock at the door.
The silence should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my bones like something unfinished.
As unfinished as the question that was never asked and therefore never answered.
It sits in the back of my mind like a splinter I keep pressing my finger against, small, irritating, easy to ignore until the moment it isn’t.
Why did Will come over that night? Not to kiss me.
Not to check on me. Not to make sure I was okay.
He’d said he needed to tell me something.
And then he didn’t. I don’t bring it up right away.
Not when he shows up with coffee after my shift.
Not when he kisses me against the brick wall behind the bookstore, slow and unhurried, like we’re not standing in public.
Not when his hand slides into the back pocket of my jeans like it belongs there now.
I wait. I know it’s because I’m not ready for the answer.
No matter how curious I am, the truth still brings a certain fear.
But tonight, we’re alone in my apartment, the windows cracked open to let in the cool air, the soft hum of the bookstore below a familiar comfort.
Will leans against the counter, watching me like he always does—quiet, assessing, unreadable.
He looks too composed for someone standing this close to me. That’s what does it is, I know I need to ask him about why he came over.
“You came over that night,” I say suddenly.
His gaze flicks up. Sharp. Controlled. “What night?”
“You know exactly which one,” I reply.
Silence stretches. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t ask me to clarify. He just pushes off the counter and steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“I told you,” he says evenly. “You’d had a rough night.”
“But that’s not why you came,” I say.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I push. “You said you needed to tell me something.”
A heartbeat of time passes, and then his mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Is that what this is about?”
“Yes,” I say. “I don’t like loose ends.”
His eyes darken. “Funny. You’ve been living in one.”
I bristle. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “It isn’t.”
He steps closer again, backing me into the counter without touching me. Not yet. The space between us feels intentional. Measured. “You want answers,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you want them right now?” His voice drops. Low. Tempting. I hesitate. Just for a second. Of course, he notices.
His hand comes up, slow, fingers brushing under my chin, tilting my face up to his. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You don’t ask questions unless you’re ready for what comes after.”
My pulse kicks. “Stop avoiding it.”
His thumb presses lightly on my jaw. “I’m not.”
“Then tell me.”
He leans in, close enough that his mouth brushes the corner of mine as he speaks. “If I do,” he says quietly, “this night goes very differently.”
My breath stutters. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise,” he corrects.
And then he kisses me. Harder than usual.
Deeper. His hand slides into my hair, fingers curling and anchoring me as his mouth takes over, demanding and unyielding, as if this is exactly what he wanted me to push him into.
I gasp, hands clutching at his shirt, feeling the heat radiating from his body, and he groans softly, the sound vibrating straight through me.
His body presses into mine, trapping me against the counter, his thigh sliding between my legs like he knows exactly where it will undo me.
“Will,” I breathe, breaking the kiss just long enough to think, my heart racing. “You’re deflecting.”
He kisses down my jaw, his teeth grazing my skin with just enough pressure to send shivers coursing through me. “I’m redirecting,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry, dripping with intent.
His hand slides to my waist, firm and possessive, pulling me closer as his other hand cups my breast through my sweater.
The touch is slow and deliberate, igniting a fire beneath my skin.
I suck in a breath, my head tipping back as my body responds before my mind can catch up, pleasure overwhelming my senses.
“This isn’t fair,” I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips.
He nips at my throat, just enough to make my knees weak, and I feel the tension between pleasure and restraint. “You didn’t say stop.”
My fingers dig into his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, the heat between us too intoxicating to fully resist. “You’re doing this so I won’t ask.”
He lifts his head, his eyes dark and steady, holding my gaze like a spell. “You’re letting me.”
That hits harder than any touch, a truth that reverberates deeply within me.
His hand slides lower, gripping my hip, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin there, marking territory without leaving a trace.
He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the way I melt into him despite myself, relishing the moment as if it were a fine wine.
“You don’t trust easily,” he murmurs against my mouth, each word a caress. “That’s not a flaw.”
“Then don’t give me reasons to doubt you,” I shoot back, my heart racing at the raw honesty in the air between us.
He stills for just a moment, as if my words have struck a chord. Then he rests his forehead against mine, breath heavy, the space between us charged with uncertainty. “I’m not lying to you,” he says quietly, sincerity lacing his voice.
“That’s not the same thing,” I whisper, feeling the weight of unspoken fears settling over us.
His mouth curves again, dark and restrained, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “No,” he agrees, “it isn’t.”
His hand tightens at my waist, grounding me, claiming the moment without crossing the line I didn’t ask him to cross. “Ask me again another night,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips. “When you’re ready for the answer.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenge, a spark of defiance igniting within.
His lips brush mine once more, soft and deceptively sweet. “Then you’ll keep choosing me without it,” he says, his eyes burning into mine, a challenge I can’t ignore.
The realization sends a shiver through me, excitement and trepidation swirling together.
He steps back before I can say anything else, before I can think too hard about what just happened or how easily he turned my question into something physical.
My body hums, unsettled, unsatisfied, and I feel like a coiled spring, ready to snap.
“I should go,” he says calmly, as if he hasn’t just undone me with his hands and his mouth, leaving me breathless and reeling.
I watch him reach the door, my heart pounding, a mix of frustration and desire swirling within. “You’re impossible,” I say, half-joking, half-serious.
He glances back, his eyes dark, intent, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
“And you keep letting me stay.” The door clicks shut behind him, and I sink against the counter, breath shaky, mind racing.
I didn’t get my answer, but I got distracted.
And somehow, that feels exactly how he planned it, like a game where I’m both the pawn and the player, and I’m not sure which part I want to embrace more.