Page 44 of The Misfit

“Salem,” he warns, lips dragging across my pulse point, “you’re playing with fire.”

I turn to look at him. Our faces are so close now that our breaths mingle. “Maybe I want to burn.”

His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide. One of his thighs slides between my legs as we move, and suddenly, we aren’t dancing anymore; we’re communicating by a different sort of touch. The air crackles, and danger dances with us. This isn’t fake. This is real. The realest thing I’ve ever felt before.

I spin in his arms, and he adjusts his grip to mold me to his front. He doesn’t say a word as he lowers his mouth to mine. It’s a wild kiss as frenetic as the music, the dancing people around us, and my heartbeat in my chest. He tastes like vodka, and it soothes my hot mouth as I deepen our kiss for once.

His tongue tangles with mine, and then he pulls back enough to take my bottom lip between his teeth. It starts gentle and grows sharp. Enough that I gasp and pull away. The edge of my desire is dulled by the tiny bite of pain.

He keeps his eyes closed a moment longer, then blinks down at me, his expression dark with need.

“Water,” Lee murmurs against my ear, his voice rough. “You need water.”

I whimper at the loss of contact as he pulls away, immediately missing his heat, his barrier against the world. He presses a kiss to my temple—too gentle for our current state. And a sharp contrast to the tiny throb in my lower lip now.

“One minute,” he promises. “Don’t move from this spot.”

I nod, still dizzy from dancing, from vodka, from him. I watch him weave through the crowd toward the bar, all predatory grace even when drunk. His absence leaves me feeling strangely exposed, but I focus on counting the beats of the music instead of panicking.

One, two, three …

Four, five?—

Hands grab my waist from behind.

Wrong hands.

Wrong size.

Wrong smell.

“Hey, beautiful.” Unfamiliar breath hits my neck, reeking of cheap beer. “Let me show you how a real man dances.”

Terror freezes my lungs. My gloves feel too tight, my skin too small. Everything is wrong, wrong, wrong?—

“Let. Her. Go.”

Lee’s voice cuts through my panic like a blade, and I look up from the floor to see him standing in front of me. The hands disappear instantly, and I stumble forward into Lee’s chest. He steadies me with one arm while the other holds out a sealed water bottle—he remembered, even now, even furious.

“Sorry, man.” The stranger holds up his hands. “Didn’t know she was taken.”

“Look closer next time.” Lee’s voice is deadly soft. The kind of quiet that precedes violence. “She’s wearing my fucking jacket.”

I am?I glance down. Somehow I hadn’t noticed him draping his leather jacket over my shoulders earlier. Marking his territory.

“Honest mistake,” the guy tries, but he’s backing away. “She was alone?—”

“She’s never alone.” Lee shifts, angling me behind him. The movement is smooth, but his muscles are coiled tight. Ready. “She’s mine.”

The guy must have a death wish because he snorts. “Yours? Isn’t she that bitch who lost it a couple of years?—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Lee moves faster than someone who has drunk as much as he should be able to, his fist connecting with the guy’s jaw in a sharp crack that somehow carries over the music. The club goes silent in ripples, attention drawing to us like blood in water.

“Say it again.” Lee’s voice is arctic. “Say one more fucking word about her.”

The guy spits blood, angry now. “You’re defending the campus psycho?”

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