Page 92 of Wicked Court

The chill of the night doesn’t quell the hellfire exuding from the bike’s engine when Wilder finally coasts to a stop in front of Camden House.

I pull my off my helmet then slide off the bike, carefully avoiding scalding my leg. Wilder holds out his arm for leverage.

Because I don’t believe he’s the kind of guy who expects goodbyes, I turn for the entrance, but I’m stopped by his gloved hand on my arm.

“Let me escort you.”

I pause, giving him a funny look.

He barks out a laugh. “I may not look the type to have manners, but they come out every now and again. For those that are worth it, anyway.”

I fight the delighted smile on my lips. “Okay. Sure.”

Wilder’s already seen all of me. What’s the difference in seeing where I live?

Moving for the door, Wilder’s casual strides keep pace with mine. His arm comes over my head to hold it open, and as I slip through into the common room scattered with late-night studiers and snackers, the sudden hush is palpable.

All sets of eyes turn to Wilder’s leather-clad frame coming up behind me.

His warm breath tickles the hair at the top of my head. “Have we arrived at a nunnery or a dorm? Have these ladies ever seen a man before?”

I send him a disapproving look over my shoulder despite the smile fighting for control of my lips. “They’ve seen men. They just haven’t seen you.”

One side of his mouth kicks up.

“You’re right, I don’t think I’ve ever stepped foot in Camden before,” he says in a low rumble behind me as we keep moving, avoiding the girls I normally stop to chat with and the table where I’m always exchanging class notes.

Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve socialized with anyone.

I take the first flight of stairs, utterly conscious of Wilder one step behind. My stomach tightens at his presence, my nerves coiling around my voice.

The staircase, saturated under the harsh overhead light, gives way to the softly lit corridor. We don’t have to walk far. As I search for my keys in my coat’s pocket, Wilder leans against the wall next to me. His quietness fills the space between us and engulfs our surroundings.

Feeling his watchful gaze on me, my hands shake slightly as I insert the key into the lock and miss.

Why am I suddenly so nervous? I’ve spread my legs for this man—twice. It’s somehow more intimate to have him close by when I’m clothed. No distractions.

“Careful there.” Wilder’s voice breaks through the scrape of brass against metal when I miss the keyhole again.

His tone is uncharacteristically gentle and devoid of his usual mocking lilt.

Before I can respond or protest further, he reaches out. His hand brushes mine away from the door handle as he turns the key himself. A whiff of leather and engine oil wafts towards me as he steps back.

“Door’s open,” he announces with a smirk that adds warmth to his hooded eyes.

My heart thumps as I take one step into my darkened room. It feels surreal to have him here in this world that has thus far been separate from him. Like mixing oil with water and expecting them to blend.

I turn around and face the hallway.

Wilder leans casually against the opposite wall, arms crossed, but his hazel eyes burn into mine, smoldering with an intensity that belies his relaxed pose.

“Want that bedtime story?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that seems to echo in the quiet corridor.

My fingers twitch with the need to touch, to confirm that the man before me is real and not just a figment of some dark fantasy.

I lift my hand, almost as if in a trance, and move towards him, brushing my fingertips along the hard contours of his cheek. The stubble there pricks my skin, igniting a trail of fire down my arm.

Wilder’s gaze darkens, growing thick with storm clouds as he grabs my wrist gently but firmly, drawing my hand down to rest on the plane of his chest. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I feel the steady thump of his heart, the warmth of his skin through his shirt searing into me.

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