Page 62

It's laughable, really, how he thinks he can pin this all on me. My laughter fills the space, bitter and jagged, like broken glass. "You think I’m the problem? You think I’m the only one who feels this?"
The question hangs there, suspended in the charged atmosphere. Austin’s gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does mine. We're locked in this dance, this battle of wills, and neither of us seems willing to back down.
The space between us shrinks, the heat of our argument morphing into something darker, heavier.
My breath hitches as Austin's hand moves—deliberate, rough—until his fingers curl around the back of my neck. His grip isn't painful, but it's firm, demanding my attention, refusing to let me slip away.
His breathing is ragged, matching the erratic rhythm of my own.
“Say it,” he growls, his voice low and edged with something raw. The sound rolls through me, awakening something I don't want to name.
I should shove him away. I should break free of the hold he has on me—both physical and otherwise. But I don’t.
Instead, I let myself feel it. The tension. The frustration. The way my body betrays me, drawn to him even as my mind screams at me to keep my distance.
His thumb brushes against the side of my throat, and I shudder. His eyes darken, tracking the movement, his pupils blown wide.
“Damn it, Skylar,” he mutters, his other hand clenching at his side like he’s fighting himself, like he’s trying to hold on to the last shreds of his restraint.
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering beneath his fingertips. “You think this is a game?” I challenge, my voice uneven, breathless.
His jaw flexes. “I think you like to play with fire,” he says, his fingers tightening just enough to make my knees go weak.
I don’t get the chance to respond before he yanks me forward, crushing his lips to mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a collision, a clash of anger and need.
Austin kisses me like he’s trying to prove a point, like he’s trying to punish me for making him want this, for making him feel something he swore he never would.
And God help me, I kiss him back.
He pulls back, pressing his lips to the corner of my jaw and tracing the line down to my throat. His breath is hot on my skin, his grip tight enough to send shudders cascading through me.
"This is a bad idea," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah," Austin's agreement comes out rough, strained. He's close, so close his features blur into a stormy expression I can feel but not see. And then his lips crash against mine again—hard, desperate, consuming. It’s like he's been wandering in a desert and I'm the first raindrop in years.
My mind screams protest, but my body betrays me, melting into the kiss. His tongue sweeps over mine, telling me he's starved for this—for me—and it ignites something fierce within my chest. This man, this infuriating, controlled man, is losing himself against my mouth, and it's terrifyingly exhilarating.
I grip his shirt, knuckles whitening as I pull him closer, or he pulls me; it doesn't matter. His taste, raw and intense, floods my senses, drowning out the voice that insists we're diving headfirst into chaos.
Chapter 20
Skylar
"Skylar," he growls against my lips, the sound vibrating through me. His kiss is desperate and searing. I'm a moth to his flame; no, I am the dry kindling, and Austin Rhodes is the conflagration threatening to consume me whole.
Heat radiates from where we touch, spreading like wildfire through my veins. I'm unraveling, and it feels like freedom, like falling, like flying.
Then he's peeling back layers of clothing, stripping me of anything that isn't him. Theo's sweatshirt becomes an obstruction, an unwelcome barrier, and Austin shoves it over my head with rough impatience. The fabric bunches around my wrists, momentarily trapping them until the garment yields.
Austin's lips trail a scorching path down my throat, branding me with each open-mouthed kiss. Possessive. Hungry. His breath is hot on my skin, and it's like he's marking his territory with every press of his lips against my collarbone, my chest. I'm burning up, consumed by the fire that's Austin Rhodes.
"More," I gasp, not recognizing my own voice—breathy, desperate.
"I want to give it all to you," he murmurs against my fevered skin, his voice a low rumble.
With deft hands, he shoves my shorts and panties down in one go. The fabric bunches around my thighs, then slides, inch by tantalizing inch, until gravity claims them, leaving them in a heap at my feet. My heart pounds, every nerve ending alight with anticipation and the sheer rightness of Austin's touch.