He runs a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him in waves. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“I think you’re the one who’s confused here.” I tug the shirt over my head, yanking the towel from my hair. “Making something out of nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he snaps, stepping closer, the heat of him pressing in even though he hasn’t touched me. His voice drops, ragged. “Watching him stand there, grinning at you like he had a chance—it made me want to break his fucking jaw.”
My heart lurches,traitorous bitch, but I don’t let him see the way his words affect me.
“It shouldn’t even matter, right? Becausethis”—I wave my hand between us—“is just a fling.”
His eyes flare, dark and wild. “You know that’s not true.”
I swallow hard. “It doesn’t change the rules. Your dad’s rule. The ones we agreed to. Remember those?”
“Fuck the rules,” he growls, and the sound of it rips straight through me.
Before I can think, his mouth crashes against mine again. It’s harder this time, desperate. My back hits the dresser, knocking over the lamp, but we don’t break apart.
I want to hate him. I hate that I want him.
His grip bruises at my hips, dragging me against him, and every ounce of fury twists into something darker, hungrier. He rips the towel from my head, tangling his fingers in my wet hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp.
“You drive me insane,” he mutters against my mouth, voice breaking. “I can’t stop wanting you.”
“I don’t want you to st—” But the words dissolve into a whimper as his hands slide beneath my shirt. “Please don’t stop.”
“I don’t want this to end,” he says hoarsely, dragging my shirt over my head, tossing it aside. “I just—fuck, Sadie—I want you. Only you.”
The rawness in his voice leaves me stripped bare. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling it off him to reveal his broad, muscled chest.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I whisper, running my hands down his torso, trying to convince myself more than him.
But then his mouth is at my throat, teeth scraping skin, his hips pressing mine, and the lie burns on my tongue.
We tear away our remaining clothes, each piece ripped off with frantic urgency, not caring where it lands. Surrendering to the desperate need for skin on skin, for contact.
The fight between us burns into heat, reckless and consuming, impossible to resist. His kisses are punishing, bruising, and I meet him with the same violence, both of us taking, unwilling to yield.
But somewhere in the chaos, we blur into something softer. His forehead drops against mine, his breath breaking as he whispers my name.
For a heartbeat, we aren’t reckless and forbidden—we’re raw and devastating, baring our souls to one another.
And when he pushes into me, the remaining fragments of anger dissolve. They leave behind something heavier, deeper, and terrifying in its intensity.
Each thrust is a promise we can’t make. A confession carved into my bones. Our bodies saying the words we can’t voice.
His hands grip my hips like he’s afraid I’ll slip away, like he’s holding on to more than just flesh. The rhythm builds, raw and relentless, until it’s too much—him inside me, around me, all-consuming.
By the end, I’m trembling, my heart split wide, like an unguarded open wound. He gathers me close, clutching me to his chest as if he could keep me there forever, his heartbeat wild against my back. And for one reckless, impossible second, I almost let myself believe he could.
Theranchisstillhalf asleep when I slip into the passenger seat of Emmett’s truck. The lingering scent of rain from the night before fills the air, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he pulls away from the main house.
Wesley didn’t stir when I snuck out of my bed and pulled myself together. His arm had been heavy across my waist, his breathing deep, like none of this weighs on him the way it does on me.
I told myself I wasn’t going to overthink this—we are not together. He is not my boyfriend. But it’s easier said than done, especially with the ache still lingering in my body and the memory of his mouth on my skin.
It’s impossible to ignore the elephant in the room—or the heaviness in my chest—especially when I’m trapped in a truck with the elephant’s brother, who had a front-row seat to yesterday’s disaster.
“Thanks for driving,” I murmur as Emmett turns onto the highway, my voice still groggy and rough around the edges.
