Page 54

And I don’t care.

Eddie pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against mine as the song fades into the background. His breath is warm on my lips, his hand still splayed across my lower back, holding me close like I might slip away if he lets go.

His eyes search mine, dark and smoldering, and then he murmurs low and rough, “You wanna go home?”

The words are simple. But they feel anything but.

Home.

It’s not just a question. It’s a promise. A challenge. A line we’re about to cross.

My heart pounds. My body already says yes before I nod. “Yeah. I do.”

He doesn’t wait. His hand finds mine—strong, certain—and he grips it tight, turning and pulling me toward the back of the ballroom.

I have to jog to keep up, heels clicking frantically against the marble floor. “Eddie,” I laugh breathlessly, “slow down, I can’t—”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking down to my shoes, then mutters, “Fuck this,” and the next thing I know, he’s bent low and swept me into his arms.

I let out a surprised yelp, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck, fingers curling into the back of his suit jacket. My face finds its way into the curve of his neck, and I breathe him in—cologne, smoke, something unmistakably Eddie. My lips graze his skin as I smile against it, already drunk on the feel of him.

“Much better,” he murmurs, tightening his hold.

Outside, the air is cooler, quieter. The chaos of the red carpet and the ballroom fades behind us. The back of the building is lined with black cars, engines idling in wait for the guests avoiding the paparazzi swarm.

Our limo is right there. The driver spots us and moves fast, rushing to open the door.

“Take us home,” Eddie orders, his voice low, firm.

Still carrying me, he ducks into the back seat, settling in with me in his lap like I belong there.

And maybe I do.

His arms wrap around me, strong and safe, and I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. My dress slides a little higher on my thigh, and I’m all too aware of the way his body shifts under me. He doesn’t say a word, just strokes his hand through my hair, tucking it behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His touch is so gentle, almost reverent. My heart aches with how much I want this.

Want him.

He looks at me like I’m breakable. Like I’m more than the girl on his arm tonight. Like I’m something precious.

“Eddie…” I whisper, unsure what I’m asking for. But I don’t have to say it.

His eyes darken, and his hand slides to the side of my throat, his thumb brushing softly across my jaw. I shiver under the touch, my breath catching.

Then he’s kissing me.

No warning. No hesitation. He slams his mouth to mine with a force that steals every ounce of breath from my lungs.

It’s not gentle now.

It’s hunger. Need. Every second of the last week—the looks, the tension, the soft kisses, the promises—boiling over.

His lips claim mine, and I open for him instinctively. His tongue slides into my mouth, demanding and desperate, and I meet him with just as much fire. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, needing him closer, and he groans into the kiss, his hands tightening on my hips.

His mouth moves over mine with raw intensity, teeth dragging against my bottom lip, making me gasp. He kisses me like he’s starving, like this is the only thing that will satisfy the ache we’ve both been nursing for days.

And I feel it. Everywhere.