Page 40 of Pretty Little Trigger
CHAPTER 39
Alana
The bass reverberates through my body like a second pulse, heavy and delicious.
The rooftop club glows in gold and violet.
Warm, decadent and alive.
I tilt my champagne flute to my lips, watching the bubbles rise and burst like stardust.
Tessa’s somewhere behind me, laughing with Riley near the DJ booth.
Riley already looks like she’s going home with the DJ.
The girls are in full force tonight.
Glamorous. Loud. Mine.
But my gaze keeps drifting.
To him.
Hunter leans against the far wall like a shadow that doesn’t belong in this world.
Black jeans, boots and that leather jacket that somehow makes the air feel ten degrees hotter.
His arms are crossed, but his eyes?
On me. Always on me.
And when our gazes lock, something pulls taut in my stomach like a bowstring.
I take another sip.
“You look like a walking disco ball and I mean that with love,” Tessa shouts over the music, sliding a fresh glass into my hand.
“Marketing opportunity, right?”
“Exactly.”
Then she grabs Kyra—who looked about two seconds from starting a fight with a girl who’d been glaring at me for too long—and drags her onto the dancefloor, leaving me laughing and alone for all of two seconds.
“Wanna dance?” a voice says beside me.
I turn. He’s hot. Tall, sharp jaw, expensive-smelling cologne.
Definitely my type. At least on paper.
“Sure,” I say, because I’m trying.
Because it’s my birthday.
Because maybe if I move enough, I’ll stop feeling so much.
The music shifts into something filthy and bass-heavy as he pulls me toward the crowd.
His hands find my waist too fast. Too firm.
They slide lower than they should and I try to stay in it, to go along with the heat.
But my heart isn’t in it.
I’m not even really looking at him.
I pull away. “Powder room,” I say, breathless for all the wrong reasons.
He lets me go, already distracted by someone else.
The powder room is unisex.
Modern. Half vanity station and half luxury lounge.
It’s empty, thank God.
I make my way toward the mirrors lined with makeup lights and hair straighteners, gripping the cool marble counter like it might anchor me.
I take a deep breath.
Another.
The door opens on a whisper of leather.
I don’t have to turn around.
I know it’s him.
“I didn’t like the way he touched you,” Hunter says, his tone low, sharp.
Possessive.
I look up in the mirror and catch his sapphire eyes in the reflection, but tonight they don’t remind me of a calm lake.
There’s a storm brewing in them.
He’s behind me, jaw tight.
That stupid, devastating leather scent mixed with soap and something darker.
My heart thuds.
“Not your problem,” I say, still facing the mirror.
He steps closer. “It is my problem, Little Diamond.”
Fuck, I love it when he calls me that.
“Why? Because you work for my dad?”
“No,” he says, voice low and breaking.
“Because… you make me lose control. You make me reckless. You make me weak. You make me—"
I turn around and stare at him, breathless. He’s too close to me. I can’t think straight. “I make you what, Hunter?”
His eyes flash like lightning. “You make me absolutely fucking feral.”
And just like that, my birthday wish comes true.
We collide. My body disintegrates into him and he’s already there, crushing his mouth to mine. It’s desperate. Starved. His lips brush mine like a question that demands an answer. When I give it, parting for him, his tongue slides against mine and I swear I taste danger. Power. Him.
I moan softly into the kiss as my tongue grazes over the sharp edge of his canine. I’ve wanted to do that since the moment we met.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s months of tension, fire and fury detonating in the span of a heartbeat. His hands are tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. My back arches to meet him, friction and heat igniting across every inch of me.
He lifts me onto the counter like I’m the most precious thing in the world. Like he doesn’t want to let go. Like I’ll disappear. My legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, instinct overriding reason. One hand grips my thigh. The other cradles the back of my neck, firm and grounding, like he has to anchor himself to keep from unravelling.
I rake my hands up his torso, over the hard planes of his chest and stomach and when my nails scratch across his skin, he growls into my mouth. A low, guttural sound that shoots straight through me.
His hand slips beneath the open edge of my blazer, fingertips grazing the curve of my bare breast. He pauses there. Hovering. His breathing ragged, eyes locked on mine, burning. Like he’s asking. Like he needs me to say it.
Touch me. Devour me. Destroy me.
But before I can whisper a word, before I can give him everything, the door swings open. He jerks back instantly, breathing hard. His lips are swollen, kiss-bitten. His hands still hovering like he doesn’t want to let go.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, stepping away like it physically pains him. “I lost control.” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slow controlled breaths.
I tilt my head, watching him. Watching the way his jaw clenches, the way he won’t quite meet my eyes. He means it. He’s trying to shut it down. Rein it in. But he kissed me like I was air and he’d been drowning.
So I smile. Slow. Subtle. Dangerous.
“Good,” I say, voice silky as sin. “Control is overrated.”
Control? I don’t need it. Not with him. Not now. Not anymore. And for the first time in my life? I believe it. Because if I had to choose between control and passion? Passion wins. Every. Single. Time.
No more pretending. No more holding back. No more stifling what I really want. I’m done with the armour. Ready to feel everything.
Then I walk past him, glitter catching the light, heels clicking against the tile like punctuation. And he follows, watching me the whole way out.