Page 21

I arch into him, nails raking down his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his shirt. The cold bite of his chain grazes my collarbone, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands, and I gasp, the sound swallowed by the dim room.

But I don’t stop. I’m done stopping.

His thumb brushes the sensitive skin just below my navel, igniting a pulse that makes my legs tighten around him.

My hands fist in his shirt, tugging, wanting more of his weight, more of his heat. His lips hover over mine again, close enough that I can taste his breath—whiskey and want.

Our hips shift, a dangerous rhythm, and the cot creaks louder, protesting the unspoken line we’re toeing. His fingers pause, splayed across my waist, and I feel the question in his touch, the restraint trembling in his frame.

But neither of us moves to cross it.

His breath is still hot against my neck when I hear it.

A shout. Not loud. But loud enough to snap every muscle in my back to attention.

“Clara!”

Sal.

Outside. Somewhere near the lot.

I freeze under Rocco’s weight. His hands still on my sides, his lips at my collar.

Another shout, closer this time.

I shove at his chest, hard.

He blinks, stunned for a half second, then catches up fast. He sits back on the edge of the cot, chest heaving. I scramble upright, pulling my shirt down with shaking fingers. My mouth still tastes like him, and that alone makes my brain short out.

“You have to go,” I whisper.

Rocco doesn’t argue. He stands, shirt half-open, eyes already scanning the room. His jacket’s slung over the chair by the crates. He grabs it, shoves his arms through, doesn’t bother to fix the collar.

“I’m serious.” I step in front of him. “You can’t be seen back here. If Sal walks in—”

“I got it.”

I push the back exit open just enough for him to slide through. The alley behind the garage is narrow, dark, still damp from the drizzle earlier. He pauses in the doorway.

“This changes everything.”

“No.” I stare hard. “It complicates everything.”

Rocco stares at me. His face is calm, but I can see the heat in his throat, the tension in the set of his arms. He wants to say more. I won’t let him.

I shove his jacket the rest of the way at him, fingers brushing his wrist just once before I drop it.

“Tomorrow?” he asks.

I hesitate too long.

“Go,” I say.

He goes.

The door clicks shut behind him. I don’t breathe until I hear his steps fade.

My knees nearly buckle.