Elizabeth
Dinner was supposed to be Casual.
That was the story I told myself as I slid into the silk forest green dress that Lillian insisted, I wear. It clung just a bit too perfectly and dipped a little too daringly.
I smoothed my hair down, trying to appear casual while secretly wishing he’d take notice. I shook my head. Why did I want him to notice?
My mind was a whirlwind of heat, wine, and the way Noah was looking at me. He hadn’t touched his meal in what felt like an eternity.
His fork dangled loosely between his fingers, forgotten, as he leaned in, eyes locked on me as if he could savor me from across the table.
His gaze was darker than usual, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Intense. Hungry.
Not just for me.
Because of me.
I shifted in my seat, my heart racing like a drumbeat behind my ribs. My thighs pressed together under the table, and I couldn’t help but revel in the heat curling low in my belly. I licked a drop of wine from my bottom lip, and I noticed his jaw tense.
“You’re staring,”
I murmured, pretending to concentrate on my plate. My voice barely broke through the restaurant's hum.
“I know.”
His words landed like a bold caress. My stomach fluttered—an annoying, traitorous response.
“You should probably stop.”
A smile curled on his lips.
“I should.”
But he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned in closer, close enough that I could feel the weight of his gaze enveloping every inch of me.
“That dress should be fucking illegal.”
I smirked, though I struggled to swallow.
“I’ll be sure to alert the fashion police.”
He set his wine glass down and tilted his head, studying me like he could peer through the cracks I’d worked so hard to hide.
“Why do you always do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re not just itching to let loose.”
Suddenly, the table felt too small, too intimate. I could smell him—wood smoke, clean soap, and something that made my hands twitch to reach for him without a second thought.
“I’m not,” I fibbed, my voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Liar.”
I pushed my plate aside, the decision feeling weighty. “We should go.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he stood up, tossing some bills onto the table without even glancing at the check. As if nothing about tonight could distract him. Not the food. Not the noise.
Just me.
And the most unsettling part? I liked it.
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The night wind danced through my hair as we sped down the road, the city lights merging into a blur of gold and red behind us.
My arms were wrapped securely around Noah’s torso, my cheek resting against his back.
The motorcycle’s engine growled beneath us, a deep, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through my thighs, making everything feel a touch less safe and a whole lot more alive.
Every curve of the road sent my body shifting against his, each sudden acceleration pressing my chest against his back, breath hitching in my throat.
I was acutely aware of everything. His strength. His warmth. His control, and beneath it all… the tension crackled between us, taut as a piano wire, ready to snap at any moment.
As we pulled into my driveway, the tires crunched softly on the pavement before he cut the engine, and silence washed over us like a gentle wave.
I dismounted the bike slowly, my legs unsteady, the hem of my dress riding high on my thighs.
I could feel his gaze on me as I adjusted it—slow, deliberate, and ultimately futile.
The air between us ignited like a spark waiting to catch fire.
He swung his leg over and stood, looming over me in the shadowy darkness. The porch light behind me cast his face in shadow, but I could still see it—the heat simmering in his eyes. A storm barely restrained beneath the surface.
“You good?”
he asked, his voice low and rough. I nodded, a simple
“Yeah”
slipping from my lips. But inside, I was a tempest, buzzing with a restless energy.
Then he stepped closer, bridging the gap between us. I stayed rooted to the spot.
“Sunshine,”
He said, the sound hanging in the air like both a warning and a prayer.
“Yeah?”
I replied, curiosity laced with a hint of apprehension. He looked at me as if he was trying to hold back the chaos that was swirling between us. And then, he made his choice.
“Fuck it.”
And he kissed me.
It wasn’t a question—it was a collision of souls.
His mouth crashed into mine with an insatiable hunger that left me breathless.
His hands cradled my jaw before tangling in my hair, tilting my head back just enough so he could deepen the kiss.
It was passionate, fierce, and completely, overwhelmingly real.
I gasped against him, and he let out a low groan, pressing me back until my spine met the porch railing. His hips anchored me in place, his body radiating warmth, strength, and a reckless determination.
I clutched the front of his jacket, my fingers digging into the leather, trying to steady myself against the wildfire he ignited within me. His tongue slipped into my mouth, exploring and claiming, as if he were trying to imprint my taste in his memory.
One of his hands slid down, fingers brushing the side of my breast before settling at my waist—his grip firm, possessive.
He pressed against me, and I felt the undeniable evidence of his desire, making my legs tremble.
Without thinking, I arched into him. My dress crept up another inch, his thigh sliding between mine.
I let out a quiet, desperate moan, and that sound unraveled something deep within him.
He kissed me harder, more fiercely. It felt like we were racing against time.
His mouth traveled from mine to my neck, biting and kissing the tender skin beneath my ear, then lower—his breath a warm whisper against my throat.
“Fuck, Liz,” he murmured, his voice raw with need. “You taste like sin.”
I was at a loss for words; my mind had short-circuited. I craved more. I wanted all of him. But I also feared the intensity of it all. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I gently, breathlessly pushed him back.
He froze, blinking rapidly, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just sprinted a marathon. His hands fell to his sides, but he didn’t step away.
“You, okay?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
He nodded, still trying to catch his breath.
“No. Yes. I just…”
“Just?”
I asked and he shook his head and smiled his crooked smile.
He took one last look at me—those dark eyes, that swollen mouth, fingers twitching as if he wanted to pull me back into his world—and then he turned away.
“I’ll see you later,” he said, and this time, I let him go.
I walked into my home, and shut the door behind me still breathless, still tasting him. I pressed my fingers to my lips, as if trying to hold onto that warmth just a little longer.
Then, I waited. I waited for the sound of the engine.
And there it was—the low growl of Noah’s motorcycle roaring back to life. The rumble rolled down the street, fading into the night like both a warning and a promise. Only when I was certain he had vanished did I allow myself to move.
The silence that settled in felt heavy. Too perfect. Something wasn’t right.
The hairs on my arms prickled. There was a subtle shift in the air—like the oxygen had thinned. The scent of smoke had vanished, replaced by something colder. Still. Watching. My instincts kicked in.
Without making a sound, I slid the strap of my bag off my shoulder and reached inside, my fingers wrapping around the hilt of the dagger tucked beneath my compact and keys. The metal felt cool against my palm, grounding me.
I took a step forward.
Then I heard it—a sound behind me, so faint that most wouldn’t have noticed.
But I wasn’t most people.
I spun around, dagger already in motion. It sliced through the air, aimed for center mass, silent and sharp.
The figure behind me caught it. In mid-flight. His hand closed around the blade as if he had been waiting for it.
My heart stopped.
He stepped into the light.
No.
No, no, no—
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
“Dad?”
I breathed, the word catching in my throat like splinters. He held the dagger in his palm, completely unharmed, as if he hadn’t just had a weapon thrown at him.
“Nice throw,” he said, a ghost of a smile flickering on his lips. “But next time? Don’t hesitate.”