Page 11

ten

. . .

Avery

The music pulses through the cantina, the beat so loud I can feel it in my chest. The dance floor is packed—locals and tourists alike swaying and spinning under the glow of string lights.

And in the middle of it all is Griffin.

He moves like he owns the place, his broad shoulders and easy grin drawing attention from everyone around him. The tall, stunning local he’s dancing with is practically wrapped around him, her laughter ringing out every time he spins her.

I take a long sip of my drink and turn back to the bar.

“Another, please,” I say to the bartender, sliding my empty glass across the counter.

“You sure about that?” Jake asks from the stool beside me, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

“I’m not drunk,” I reply, waving him off. “Just...hydrated.”

Jake snorts. “Right. Because hydration involves glaring at Griffin Knox like you’re about to murder him.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” I say, probably too quickly.

Jake gives me a look, tilting his head toward the dance floor. “So why, exactly, don’t you want to dance with him?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “He’s my best friend’s brother. Little brother. I don’t like, ahem, younger guys.”

Jake glances at him on the dance floor. “How tall is he? Like six-five? How is he ‘little,’ exactly? He’s like a year younger. That’s barely anything.”

“Okay, you know what, Jake?” I say, a little defensively. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh. Sure it’s not.”

“Never has been, never will be.”

Jake hums thoughtfully, swirling his drink like he’s deep in fake contemplation, but I can see the barely-contained smirk tugging at his lips.

“Besides,” I add, crossing my arms. “He’s not my type.”

Jake snorts. “Six foot five with great abs—and actual dance moves, surprisingly—aren’t your type?” He raises an eyebrow. “So what, pray tell, is your type? I’ll wait.”

I scoff, grabbing the fresh drink the bartender sets in front of me. “You’re not helping.”

“No, I’m genuinely curious.” He leans on the bar, grinning. “What is it? Scrawny IT guys? Mysterious loners who wear leather jackets and quote Nietzsche? Mathletes with strong opinions on the stock market? Personally…I actually do have a thing for scrawny IT guys.”

I roll my eyes. “You are such a menace.”

Jake gasps, clutching his chest. “How dare you? I am a supportive friend asking important questions about your love life.”

I take a sip of my drink. “Right. And I’m a princess waiting for my fairytale ending.”

“I knew it. You do have a thing for Griffin.”

I choke on my drink. “Oh my God—drop it, Jake.”

He laughs, all smug satisfaction, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Denial. Classic first stage. I think everyone but you two sees your chemistry. It’s really something else.” Jake leans back in his stool. “Anyways, you’re over here stewing, and he’s out there living his best life. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” I say firmly, taking another sip. “I just had a breakup yesterday. I’m taking it easy tonight.”

“Hey, I get it,” Jake says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Been there, honey.”

I glance back at the dance floor, where Griffin is now twirling his partner again, her dress catching the light as she laughs.

It’s ridiculous how easy he makes it look. The charm, the confidence, the stupid, effortless way he can make anyone feel like the center of the universe.

It’s also ridiculous how much it bothers me.

“Okay, fine,” I say, setting my drink down. “Let’s dance.”

Jake blinks, clearly surprised. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” I reply, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the dance floor.

“Should I be worried about your motives here?” he asks as we weave through the crowd.

“Absolutely not,” I say with a grin. “This is purely about having fun. No ulterior motives whatsoever.”

Jake laughs, following my lead as I find a spot on the edge of the dance floor. The music shifts to something faster, and we fall into step easily, the rhythm lifting my mood almost immediately.

Dancing with Jake is easy. He’s lighthearted and funny, throwing in exaggerated moves that make me laugh despite myself.

But even as I’m spinning and swaying, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

And then, through the sea of dancers, I see him.

Griffin.

He’s still dancing with his ridiculously gorgeous partner, but his eyes are locked on me again. It’s infuriating how he does that—how he manages to look so casual and cocky and completely in control, even on a packed dance floor.

Jake notices, of course. “Well, well,” he says, spinning me again. “Looks like Knox is ready to throw down.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, pretending not to care.

“Call it a hunch,” Jake replies, smirking as Griffin’s partner says something to him and walks off the dance floor.

Before I can process what’s happening, Griffin is heading our way, weaving through the crowd with that stupid grin plastered on his face.

“Having fun, Sinclair?” he asks as he reaches us, his voice teasing.

“Loads,” I reply, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I think it’s time we had a little competition.”

I blink, caught off guard. “A competition?”

Griffin raises an eyebrow, his gaze challenging. “You scared?”

“Of you?” I laugh, shaking my head. “Please.”

“Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Dance-off. You and me. Right here, right now.”

The crowd around us seems to catch wind of what’s happening, and before I know it, a circle is forming, classmates and strangers alike egging us on.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, but my heart is already racing.

“Fine, Sinclair,” Griffin says, his grin widening. “I’ll go first. But then you’ve got to show me what you’ve got.”

The music shifts to something fast and sultry, and before I can back out, Griffin steps into the center of the circle, his movements smooth and annoyingly good. He rolls his shoulders, his hips moving in time with the beat, fluid and effortless.

And then—just to be a menace—he throws in an absolutely hilarious twerking-type move, and the crowd loses their minds.

I admit it—I’m about dying laughing too.

“Alright, alright!” Jake calls out. “Your turn, Avery!”

I take a deep breath, stepping into the circle with a confidence I don’t quite feel. The rhythm picks up, and I let the music take over, my body moving instinctively. The crowd cheers louder, and I can’t help but smile as I spin and sway, meeting Griffin’s gaze across the circle.

And then, just to mess with him, I stop mid-spin and mimic his ridiculous twerking move from earlier. I arch my back, exaggerating every motion, my hands in the air like I’m on a music video set from 2005.

The crowd loses it—laughing, cheering, clapping—and Griffin’s jaw drops for a split second before his grin stretches even wider.

“Okay, okay,” he says, his voice carrying over the noise. “I see how it is!”

“You started it,” I reply, tossing my hair over my shoulder, a smirk tugging at my lips.

But then the beat shifts—deeper, slower, dirtier.

Griffin smirks.

Oh, hell.

Before I can process what’s happening, he steps closer, closing the space between us. His body moves in perfect sync with mine, and I feel the heat of him against my back as I grind my ass into him.

The circle dissolves, the crowd swallowing us whole. The noise around us fades into a hum, the bodies pressing in creating an almost unbearable intimacy. We’re no longer a spectacle. We’re just two people lost in the rhythm, the tension between us crackling like electricity.

His hand slides along my waist again, but this time, it lingers. His fingers trail upward, grazing the curve of my ribs before brushing the base of my throat. I suck in a sharp breath as his touch shifts lower, so close to the swell of my breasts that my skin feels like it’s on fire. I press backward, into him, and I can feel him. All of him .

Every move pulls us closer, the space between us non-existent. His hand stays where it is, steady but suggestive, while his hips press into mine, matching my every roll and sway.

His hands never push, never demand—just guide. And somehow, that makes it worse.

My breath catches as he dips me low, his grip strong and sure, his lips hovering just inches from mine.

I should be laughing. I should be brushing this off.

But I’m not.

Because when I meet his gaze, there’s no trace of humor, no trace of playfulness. Just heat. Raw, unrelenting heat.

The back-and-forth continues, each move daring the other to break. The tension between us is thick enough to cut, and I’m hyperaware of the way his eyes are fixed on me—like I’m the only person in the room.

And the worst part?

It sends an undeniable thrill rushing through me.

By the time the music slows to something softer, I’m breathless and flushed, my heart pounding in my chest.

Griffin steps closer, his grin softer now, almost genuine.

“I think you won,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Damn right I did.” But it lacks its usual bite.

For a moment, neither of us moves, the air between us crackling with something I can’t quite name.

Then—just when I think he might say something else, might do something else—Jake comes from nowhere and slaps a hand on my shoulder.

“That was incredible! You two need to take this act on the road.”

The spell shatters, and I laugh it off, stepping back, putting space between us.

But my body still hums from where he touched me.

And when I glance back at Griffin, his gaze is still on me.

Like he’s not quite ready to let go of whatever that was.

I should leave it. I should grab Jake, down another drink, throw myself into the crowd again until the heat in my chest fades into something manageable.

But I don’t.

Because Griffin is already moving.

His fingers brush my wrist—a barely-there touch that somehow lights me up—and then he tilts his head toward the empty back patio. A silent invitation.

I don’t question it.

The music fades behind us as we slip through the open doors into the slightly cooler night air. The patio is mostly empty, lit only by dim string lights overhead, the faint sounds of the city humming beyond the club’s walls.

“Needed some air?” I ask, my voice lighter than I feel.

Griffin doesn’t answer.

Instead, he moves.

One second, I’m standing there, heart still pounding from the dance floor.

The next, my back hits the brick wall, warm hands caging me in, the rough texture pressing through the thin fabric of my dress. Griffin presses my hands above my head, leaving me defenseless.

I suck in a breath.

Oh.

Griffin’s gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes. Hesitating. Waiting.

Like he’s giving me one last chance to stop him.

I don’t take it.

He leans in, and then—God help me—he kisses me.

And it’s not soft or careful or questioning.

It’s deep. Sure. Like he already knows what I taste like and is just claiming it again.

The brick scrapes against my bare shoulders as I sink into it, as his hands skim my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me against him.

My fingers curl into his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto because—holy hell—my knees are actually weak.

It’s too much and not enough.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, drinking me in like he’s been waiting for this, like he knew we’d end up here the moment our bodies collided on that dance floor. His lips are soft but demanding, his stubble grazing my skin, a delicious contrast to the smooth heat of his tongue.

And I—I can’t think.

All I know is his hands, his mouth, the way his body feels pressed against mine. The way his heat consumes me, chasing away every rational thought.

But he’s not done.

He lifts me up effortlessly, his strength making me gasp as my legs instinctively wrap around his waist. The rough scrape of the wall digs into my back, but I don’t care. I grind against him, the friction sending a shockwave through my entire body as his huge hands grip my ass, his fingers digging into my flesh through the thin fabric of my dress.

One hand trails up, splaying across my lower back, pulling me impossibly closer, while the other stays on my thigh, his thumb brushing maddeningly slow circles along the sensitive skin. My dress rides up higher, the cool night air contrasting with the burning heat of where our bodies meet.

His mouth leaves mine, dragging along my jaw, my neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make me shiver. He presses a kiss just below my ear, the soft sound of his breath making my head spin.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless, my chest rising and falling too fast, my head too foggy to form a coherent thought.

Griffin leans in just a little more, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth, his voice rough, low enough that it’s barely a whisper.

“Still think this isn’t a thing?”

I don’t have an answer.

Because I have a feeling I just lost whatever game we were playing.

Griffin watches me for another second, his breath still warm against my lips, his body still so close, and when I don’t answer—when I can’t—he grins.

Slow. Knowing.

And then, without a word, he takes my hand.

He doesn’t pull. Doesn’t tug.

Just laces his fingers through mine and walks.

And I follow.

We weave back inside, through the crowd, past our classmates, past prying eyes—until we reach the stairs leading up to the empty VIP lounge.

My pulse skitters, but I don’t stop him.

We step into the dimly lit upstairs dance floor, where the music is louder, thicker, the bass pounding in my chest, my blood.

There are no professors here. No classmates watching. No one who matters.

Just us.

Griffin turns to face me, his fingers still tangled with mine. The way he’s looking at me—like he knows exactly where this is going—sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

I don’t get a chance to second-guess it before he’s pulling me in, pressing our bodies flush.

I inhale sharply.

Oh.

Oh, damn.

Because I can feel him.

All of him.

Hard. Strong. Unapologetic.

And the worst part? I like it.

The music sears through us, the heavy bass matching the pulse between my legs as we fall into the rhythm, our bodies moving in sync, locked in, tangled.

His hands roam—my hips, my waist, my spine—slow, deliberate, exploring as I press against him, let him pull me closer.

His breath skims my ear. “You’re driving me crazy, Sinclair.”

I whimper. Actually whimper.

Because his voice, low and rough in my ear, his body against mine, his hands gripping my waist—it’s too much and not enough, all at once.

I should stop.

I should say something smart, something biting, remind him I don’t like him, that this is just fun, just nothing.

But instead, I tilt my head, brush my lips against the edge of his jaw, and feel the way his grip tightens.

His breath catches.

The music pulses, the crowd moves around us, but right now, in this moment, it’s just us.

And I am so damn far past denying it.

As I press my ass against him, his hands roam—over my hips, my stomach, the tops of my legs.

My throat. My shoulders. My hair. Everywhere.

"Fuck, Avery," he breathes, his voice strained, like he's barely holding on. "You drive me insane. You know that? It’s like torture trying to hold back with you when I just want to bend you over the nearest surface and have my way with you.”

I don’t want him to hold back.

And I sure as hell don’t want to, either.

His hands tighten, and in one effortless movement, he spins me around to face him, lifts me up onto the nearby railing.

I gasp as my back meets the cool metal, but before I can react, his mouth is on mine.

And—holy shit.

The kiss is deep, desperate, consuming. His hands grip my thighs, holding me against him like he’s staking a claim. Like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he’s not planning on stopping anytime soon.

And I don’t want him to.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, my fingers tangling into his hair, tugging—just to see what it does to him.

It gets me a growl.

A low, dangerous sound that sends a pulse of heat straight through me.

His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, my neck, my collarbone, biting just enough to make me gasp.

I don’t know how long we stay like this, tangled, lost in the music and the heat and each other.

But then—reality slams into me like a freight train.

I stiffen.

Because this is Griffin.

Griffin Knox.

My best friend’s brother.

I swallow hard, my breath still ragged as I press a hand against his chest, pushing just slightly.

His lips hover near mine, his breath uneven, questioning.

And then, in the quietest voice, I whisper, “I like you. But this has to be a one-time thing. This is…a rebound. A rebound makeout.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But his grip on me tightens.

I keep going before I lose my nerve. “This stays here. No more. No funny business when we get home. Got it? I’m serious.”

His jaw tenses.

His hands flex on my thighs.

For a second, I think he’s going to argue.

But then he exhales sharply, lets out a low, humorless laugh.

And his eyes—God, his eyes—lock onto mine with something unreadable.

“You are going to be the death of me, Avery Sinclair. And you know what? I don’t particularly care. I’m welcoming it, actually.”

I force out a shaky breath, my hands still resting on his chest.

Because for some reason, when he says that, it doesn’t feel like a warning.

It feels like a promise.

I clear my throat, breaking the spell. “I-I think we should head back.”

Griffin’s grip loosens, and he steps back, his expression shuttered.

“I’ll get us a taxi,” he says, his voice low and steady.