Page 13 of Rulebreaker

But first, I take a moment to size up my reflection in the mirror.

I look absolutely, positively well-fucked. Hair a wild halo around my head, cheeks flushed, lipstick gone, makeup smeared. I’m a mess, but the best kind of mess, in my opinion.

Atlas Delarosa was everything I could have dreamed of in bed–and then some.

Which makes him very, very dangerous.

The safest thing for everyone involved is for me to walk away.

Before I do something…stupid.

I’m not looking for a relationship and there’s something about this guy that twists me up inside.

I do my best to freshen up, fix my face, tame my hair into a ponytail, and pull my clothes back on. I’ll shower when I get to the hotel. Then I’m going to sleep and focus on tomorrow night’s show.

I don’t have time for anything else.

Atlas is no longer in bed when I come out of the bathroom and I find him back in the chair he was in when we first took off–looking as put together as ever. Hecleans up well.

I’ve just settled into my chair across from him when the wheels touch down.

Oh, good.

No awkward post-coital small talk.

I need to get out of here.

“We’re in a private hanger,” he says. “Your car service should be waiting.”

“Thank you.” I get to my feet and reach for my purse. “For everything. I really appreciate the ride.” God, that was a dumb thing to say, but it’s too late now.

So I lean over and press my lips to his cheek, letting them linger just a fraction of second longer than I should have.

“You’ve very welcome.” There’s a strange look on his face but I can’t allow myself to spend time thinking about it.

“Take care.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, but before he can, I make a beeline for the exit, brushing past a startled Maya in my wake.

The showin Denver is sold out and I roll my neck as I prepare to take the stage.

Every performance is a two-hour workout and I do my best to give the audience what they paid for. Because tickets to see me live aren’t cheap.

I’m a little tired tonight, though.

Despite my plans to sleep last night, I tossed and turned once I got to the hotel. My body felt like it was on high alert, skin tingling, limbs restless. Almost as if I was branded. Like Atlas Delarosa fucking marked me.

What does that even mean?

I can’t wrap my head around the pull–the physical need to touch him.

And it’s distracting as fuck.

“Thirty seconds, Lily.” My stage manager, Barb, motions to me.

“Thanks.”

I roll my neck again and close my eyes, pulling in a deep breath through my nose. I hold it, count to ten, and then very slowly blow it out through my mouth. I do that two more times and I’m as centered as I’m going to be. Some nights are harder than others.