Page 7 of Lustling

Heat flares at the contact. His grip is firm, unhurried—possessive in a way that sends a slow, unwanted shiver spiraling down my spine. His fingers curl into the fabric of my dress like he’s testing its strength… or mine. The touch lingers too long, not the kind of touch a stranger should offer. And still, he doesn’t let go.

“Careful now, little lamb,” he murmurs, voice smooth as sin, dipped in something older than charm.

I look up—and keep looking. He’s tall. Towering. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are a deep, otherworldly violet, sharp as shards of amethyst glass. They gleam with something ancient. Somethingknowing.

The moment our gazes lock, something shifts inside me. Something primal. My lungs forget how to work. A pulse of warning—deep and buried—beats just beneath my skin.

Predator.

He studies me like I’m a specimen, something to be dissected and filed away. His gaze doesn’t sweep—itdrags. It lingers onmy lips, my throat, the fast rise and fall of my chest. Every glance is deliberate, clinical, hungry.

Then he breathes in.

Not subtly. Not accidentally. A full inhale, as if he’s trying totasteme in the air.

My heart stutters violently.

The hair on the back of my neck lifts. Cold starts to bloom under the heat of his grip.

A laugh escapes me, breathless and brittle. I step out of his hold, putting a few much-needed inches between us. But he doesn’t follow. He doesn’t flinch.

And I don’t move either. Ican’t.

My legs feel boneless, trembling. My body hums with a heat that isn’t mine—like something inside me has been stirred awake. Like he’s dragging desire out of me by force.

It’s wrong. All of it is wrong.

And still, I want more.

He is… beautiful. Devastatingly so. Not the soft kind of beauty that inspires love poems or longing. No, this is the kind you don’t speak about. The kind painted in cathedral murals as temptation incarnate. A divine warning.

His hair is raven-black, swept back with purpose. But I can already see it—how it would fall in wild strands across his brow if he raked his fingers through it. His shirt is black, crisp and unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing tattoos that twist like smoke along his skin. His jeans are dark, tailored but easy. He doesn’t need to try.

Heknowshe’s dangerous.

“You smell delicious,” he says softly.

My thighs clench before I can stop them. Heat pools low, thick and humiliating.

He sees it. Of course he does.

His smirk curves like a blade across his lips, cruel and amused.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, my voice too breathy, too light. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

His amusement deepens, eyes glittering with something that could be laughter—or hunger.

“No harm, no foul.” He hands me a flier, fingers grazing mine. “My brothers and I started a church group on campus. For those who might need… direction.”

The word lands heavy in my stomach. It shouldn’t feel like a proposition.

But itdoes.

His gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t look away. It burns straight through me, deep and deliberate, like he’s searching for something just beneath the surface of my skin. A secret only he can see.

A slow ache blooms in my belly. I don’t know if it’s fear or arousal, and that terrifies me more than either.

I glance at the flier. Of course. My parents are going tolovethis. “Wow. Thanks.”