Page 259 of What We Burn

Holden settles over me, mouth finding my ear. “We could go again,” he murmurs. “Put on a show.”

God help me, heat pools low in my belly all over again. But my brain—traitorous, practical—kicks in.

“Holden.” I press both palms to his chest until he has to look at me. “If Milo’s camera catches us starting round two, that feed pings every phone in this family. You know it does. They’ll be here in minutes. All of them.” I arch a brow. “You really in the mood to share right now?”

The question hangs between us. Holden Cross—the most possessive man in this arrangement—stares at the camera, thinking.

Then he gets up, plucks the camera from its housing, and drops it lens-down into the water glass on my nightstand.

“Not today.”

I giggle as he pulls me into him hard, one arm banded across my back, and kisses me like the word mine is a language he’s fluent in. Deep. Slow. Claiming. When he finally lets me breathe, his forehead is pressed to mine, eyes closed.

“Today, you’re mine,” he says.

“Milo’s going to be devastated about his camera.”

“Milo can buy another camera.” His hand slides down my spine and settles low, anchoring me. “I’ll even take him shopping.”

I laugh into his shoulder.

It’s been a little over a week since the night Amy killed Tyler in our living room and Milo wiped out fourteen Kennel predators like a biblical plague. Since then, all six of us have officially and irrevocably decided that this strange, bruised, perma-horny group is a family and none of us are allowed to leave until further notice.

Today, Holden and I were supposed to “drop by” the apartment to pick up some of my things to take home, and to grab some more clothes for Amy—she hasn’t been back here yet, and is still staying with Dean—but Holden decided we needed to say a proper goodbye to my bed. And now, I guess we’ve said goodbye to Milo’s camera too.

I run my fingers through his hair. It’s damp at the temples. His heart is hammering against my ribs and the rhythm is fast and unsteady and so different from his usual composed cadence that it makes me smile.

“You’re smiling,” he says into my skin.

“Your heart’s going a mile a minute.”

“You do that to me.”

“The great Holden Cross. Undone by a five-foot-four waitress.”

“Five-foot-three.”

“I round up.”

He lifts his head. Looks at me. And the expression on his face is one I’ve been seeing more of lately—a softness, like he’s not sure why he gets to have this, but he’ll take every second and bite the bullet on karma later.

“Do you remember the first time we were alone together?” he asks.

I trace the line of his jaw with my finger. “You mean the time you pinned me against a wall, forced me to eat breakfast with you and threatened me so I wouldn’t talk? Yeah, I remember.”

He grins. “That was a great moment. You were so feisty. My dick was so fucking hard the whole time.”

“I’ll bet it was.” I laugh.

He rests his forehead against mine, nose brushing my cheek. “No one’s ever looked at me the way you did that day. Like you could see straight through me and didn’t like what you saw, but you were still rooting for me to get it right.”

“You were an asshole.”

“I was. I am.”

“You’re a sexy asshole.”

He snorts. “You know that’s what made me spiral about you, right? Not the sex, or the chase, or all the drama with Brock and Stephen and the Hangmen. It was you not being afraid of me.”