I glance at the door, closed behind him. This evil man, in a hoodie that’s absolutely going to mess up his hair when he pulls it off, and a pair of running shorts that show off his long, muscular legs. Legs I’ve sat on. Twenty minutes. There isn’t time to panic—and goddamn, he did that on purpose, didn’t he?
“Okay, whatever.” I throw back a sip of coffee, and it’s good. Sweet and flavored and not something I’d order for myself, but would want to. Fuck. With a huff, I set it down and go to his closet, where I’d had him hang our options up. “Thanks for pulling these. I’d wanted to discuss with you how you felt about the race, and what everyone’s saying online—the pressure. If you want to come in like,screw all of you, I’m amazing, or maybe something more understated. I’d go with the latter, but this is a momentwe can really define how you’re going to present your comeback this year.”
“What comeback?”
I roll my eyes at the closet, my back to him. “So are you feeling screw-you trousers and a ribbed tank, or Levi’s and a shirt from Stark-Benzin’s Hajime Sorayama collab?”
“The silver one?”
“Mmhm.”
A moment passes, and I realize Faust isn’t going to reply. I turn and find him staring at me from beside his bed. He isn’tthatclose to it—just close enough for my breath to catch. His arms are crossed over his chest, his head tilted slightly to one side, angled as he assesses me. And he has this look in his eye that’s equal parts exciting and terrifying, like he didn’t invite me here to talk clothes at all.
Warmth twists my stomach. He’d asked me if all my rules were the same, and I’d said yes. “What?” I say, and I sound miserably excited, even to me.
“You don’t have to…” He frowns. “Do you genuinely like fashion?”
I snort, relieved that’s what was on his mind. Mostly relieved. Partly. Some? “You think it’s part of the act.”
“It’s a bit in your face.”
“As evil? Frivolous? Hannibal Lecter, Lestat.” I pause, dropping my voice. “French tailoring?”
He laughs, then goes contemplative, walking closer to me. “I was just curious. I could’ve talked to Mei, if it was. Keep you here for the next three races.”
I’m already shaking my head. “No, I, no. I want to do the Day Gala. I really do. I’m not happy about—”
I’m cut off. By a kiss. Faust’s lips, ghosting over mine, here andthen gone. He leans back, a crease already dug between his eyebrows. “Sorry. I just—really wanted to do that. Keep going.”
“Oh. I, um.” My lips press together, tingling, and I don’t want to smile like an idiot from one little kiss. But I might need to. “Lost my train of thought.”
Faust’s worry relaxes. His eyes dip to my lips as he lifts his hand to my jaw. When our lips meet again, he’s smiling, the last rumble of a laugh buried in his throat. “Keep talking.” He cups my face, thumb tucked beneath my chin, and I think I love when he holds me like this. Like he’s going to tell me where to look. “Could listen to you forever.”
“But… I talk so much.”
“Not enough.”
My eyes slip shut when he kisses my jaw, harder and less chaste than a moment ago. It’s enough to make me forget about that word—forever. “What did I say?” he murmurs, and his breath is so hot against my neck that he could melt me down if he wanted, down to nothing at all. “Let me hear you.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
He’s right. Thisislike sex. I’m thrumming like I’ve been soaked in gasoline and he’s the match, and all he’s done is kiss me and chide me and override mycan’twith hiscan. I whimper, my arms sliding around his shoulders for stability as he kisses a slow path to my ear. “Faust.”
“Hm?”
“The race.”
“Ten more minutes.”
“You need to—” Teeth scrape against my skin, and my voice chokes into an embarrassing moan, my body arching into him. “You need to get dressed.”
“I will,” he says, and there’s so much easy confidence in his voice that I feel my pulse between my legs. I feel him, too. He’s a wall of muscle; pure, unmoving, unyielding friction. His thighs are solid against mine, his chest, his hips, and I shiver from the sudden comet crash of an epiphany that Faust would let me do anything to him,withhim. I might have to ask for it, beg for it, wait for it, but nothing is off the table with him. Not if this is how he kisses. I could ask for him to slot his leg between mine and he’d stand here, holding me, while I let this heat crash over me. Knowing what he’s into, he’d probably thank me afterward.
I’m the one who’s saying no to that.
I pull away, my mind a blur of all the things we could do before anyone found us together. A single syllable is all I can manage at the moment. “Clothes.”
