Page 150 of Silver Elite

“I think about you before I go to sleep.”

I blink in shock.

He stalks up, jaw set in determination. I blink again, and he’s tugging me flush against his body. Letting me feel how hard he is for me.

“I think about this.”

He drags his hand up my hip, skimming the side of my breast, my collarbone, until his fingers slide over the nape of my neck to wind through my hair.

I peer into his heavy-lidded blue eyes and say, “I don’t think about you at all.”

Rather than take offense, he barks out a laugh. He twists a hunk of hair around his fingers. “I’m not used to this,” he admits.

“To what?”

“Being the one out of control.”

“I’m not used to being the oneincontrol.” And I start to laugh, too.

His eyebrows lift in surprise.

“What?”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh.”

“That’s not true.”

“Without the sarcasm.”

“Oh. Fair.”

His lips curve. I like making him smile. I like seeing that dimple.

But it’s that warm burst of pleasure that reins me back in.

“We agreed it would never happen again,” I remind him.

“Maybe we should reconsider that stance.”

Slowly, he backs me into the door, surrounding me with scent, teasing my bare arm with his callused fingertips. I can feel his arousal, burning hot and fierce against my skin.

And oh, how I want to surrender to it, to lose myself in the heat of his touch.

“Or…maybe we should stick to the plan,” I force myself to say.

I ease out of his grasp and push the door open, leaving his frustrated expression at my back.

—

Later, when I’m putting my source away for the day, I notice there’s an update to my scores. I click it to discover my Fallen Soldier score has changed fromFailtoPass.I wonder how he’ll explainthatone to his instructors.

I fight the smile that threatens to surface.

Kindness is weakness, huh? What does that make him then?

I wash the day away alone in the shower, thinking about Cross and how easy it would be to lose myself in him again. My body remembers that sensation. It craves it. But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers a warning. It could never work. Our loyalties can never be reconciled, and it scares me that every time his lips are on mine, I can’t bring myself to care about that.

When I slide the soap over my thigh, it snags over the patchwork of pink and red scars, puckered and raised like the jagged peaks of a mountain range against the backdrop of flesh. I run my fingers along the contours of the scars, a clear, indisputable reminder of why I can’t give in to Cross again. Even if I wanted to forget who I am and who he is, I can’t. My body won’t let me.

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