Page 47 of Burn

Do it, Lex. Push off him.

His heart pounds against my fingers, and I’m desperate to feel more of it, so I splay my hand against him, pushing into the fabric of his shirt. It’s not close enough. Without thinking, I move my hand, tucking it under the fabric and trailing it up his heated skin. Adrian hisses in a breath at the contact, pulling my eyes back to his. There’s so much intensity in every inch of this man. In the way his eyes bore into mine, in the way his hands move and flex against my body, in the way he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. I allow my thumb to move, rubbing over the hair that dusts his chest. He’s so fucking masculine.

He watches me, breath shallow, and every muscle locked tight. I know I need to say something, but my mind is blank of any rational thought, other than wanting. Desperate fucking need for him. I trace small circles on his skin, memorizing the feel of him, keeping myself in the moment, while my pulse continues its not-so-slow climb. He smells like fire. The way he always smells. It makes sense, given he spends his life in chaos and ash. My hips move, searching for friction to release the tension that builds deep inside of me.

His hand, still on my neck, flexes, and his thumb moves, searching out my pulse. His voice is low, gravelly, and sends bolts of electricity directly to my clit when he says my name, “Lex,” it’s all I can do not to moan. “You sure about this?”

Am I sure? I’ve never been more fucking conflicted, actually.

Words I should say, but can’t, so instead I slowly shake my head. Something flickers through his expression. Pain, maybe? Hope? The rhythm under my hand increases as he leans forward, allowing his nose to brush mine. Our mouths are so close, and for a moment, he’s all I can see and breathe. I feel the slight tremor in his hand and realize he’s barely holding on. After everything, all I want in this moment is for him to let go, for him to chase away the memories of the fire and the hurt that came before it, so I pull ever so gently. When he doesn’t immediately give me what I need, I move my hand, reaching for the towel wrapped around my body, and pull it loose, letting it pool around us.

A growl vibrates through his chest, and his mouth claims mine. His hand on my back moves, wrapping around my waist and pulling my chest flush with his. I part my lips, allowing his tongue to slide into my mouth, tasting me. This kiss is different. There’s no anger or fight. It’s pure passion, and I wrap my arms around his neck, needing him so much closer than is physicallypossible. I want him to consume me. I feel the thickness of his cock through his pants, grinding myself against it, and when my clit makes contact, I gasp, pleasure exploding through me.

What happens next is, well, not unexpected, but it is unfortunate. My still-healing lungs rebel against me, and a fit of coughs pulls me away from him. I hack and sputter, trying to regain myself, but it’s no use. Pain burns through my chest, causing me to hunch over in his lap. I feel him tense up, and I don’t need to look at him to know it’s over. When I’m finally able to breathe, I sit up, screwing my eyes closed. I can’t bear to see the look I know is on his face. When he speaks again, his tone is softer, cautious.

“Lex, we should wait. You need rest.”

I want to fucking scream. I don’t need him to baby me. I don’t want him to baby me. I don’t want fucking rest. I take a deep breath, turning back to him. He’s still so close, inches from me, but he might as well be an ocean away. His strong hands reach for the towel, wrapping it around my body, and then, gripping my hips, he moves me to the couch beside him. I want to argue with him, tell him I’m capable of making my own decision, but he’s up on his feet before I have the chance. The energy is all wrong as he paces the living room, scrubbing his hand over his jaw.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Lex. I’m sorry. That was — fuck. That was so fucking stupid.”

“Adrian,” I start, but he storms to the bedroom.

Okay, this is an overreaction.

I stand, adjust my towel, and follow after him.

I can’t believe I need to negotiate my ability to have sex with this fucking guy right now.

I round the corner, and he’s in the process of changing clothes. I watch the way his muscles ripple as he pulls on a pair of shorts, then rips his shirt off. God, he’s so fucking beautiful.

Nope. Don’t.

He pulls a t-shirt from the dresser and slams the drawer closed so hard that I jump. He mutters to himself while he pulls it on and then stops short when he sees me standing in the doorway.

“I gotta get out of here,” he starts. The expression he wears now is clear. Guilt. He storms toward me, and I plant my feet, refusing to show him any fear, refusing to back down to him. When he reaches me, he doesn’t shove past. Instead, he gently moves me to the side, silently apologizing with his eyes. “I’m going to go down to the gym. It’s on the third floor, if you need me.” With that, he’s gone, slamming the door to the apartment behind him.

Rejection is bitter on my tongue. I stand in the bedroom doorway, adjusting my towel again and again. Was that really about me not being ready, or was it just about me? The thought makes me feel sick. My skin crawls, and it’s the push I need to walk into the bedroom in search of clothes. I pull open the top drawer and, for the first time, look at the clothing he bought, somehow knowing I’d end up here. He went out of his way to visit different stores, buying various styles and sizes of panties and bras. Closing the top drawer, I move to the second. It’s filled with neatly folded shorts and yoga pants.

Can’t help but laugh at the yoga pants. The guy really doesn’t know me, but this time, it’s cute. I grab a soft pair of sleep shorts and tug them on. The shirts are all women’s styles, and not what I need right now. I want something I can hide in, so I step into the closet. I run my hands across the items there: dresses and jeans. Things that look like I’d wear them to work.I continue, feeling the rough fabric of his uniform. I skim my fingers over the fire department patch. My eyes drop to the laundry basket tucked inside, filled with his worn items. On top is a dark blue t-shirt with the department shield on the front. I pull it out, and his scent is everywhere.

I lift the shirt to my nose. There is smoke, hints of cologne, and something that is justhim.It’s massive. Checking the tag, I laugh at the size — XXL. Of course it is. I pull it over my head, loving the way it feels, the way it smells, and the way it drapes over my much more petite frame. It hangs so low that the shorts are barely visible under it.

Perfect.

I move through his space, looking for anything that will tell me more about this stranger I find myself temporarily living with, but his place really is nearly empty, save for a photo on the dresser of a smiling older man. His eyes are so similar to Adrian’s, and I know it has to be his dad. I pick up the picture and study it. Some people justlookinherently good, and this man is one of them. Somehow, I know he’s not alive, and that fact breaks my heart for Adrian.

It takes me less than ten minutes to snoop through every drawer. The guy doesn’t even own a set of cutlery. There’s a box of plastic utensils instead. I locate a hairbrush in the bathroom and brush out my tangled, damp hair. When I finish, I stare at my reflection. My cheeks are still flushed from our recent encounter and the unfinished business between us. Self-doubt flashes through my mind, and I lift his oversized shirt and study my body. As I scan every inch, I grow angrier and angrier. Annoyed, really. I square my shoulders, tug the shirt down, spin, and stomp to the door, pulling myConverseon.

I refuse to wallow in self-pity, or doubt, or whatever the fuck I’m currently feeling. I’m a whirlwind of rage as I stalk to theelevator, mentally writing out my monologue of shit I plan to deliver when I find him. I stand in the elevator, arms folded over my chest, shaking my head and muttering about what a fucking asshole he is. I remain like this as I walk up to the gym, but the sight of him stops me dead in my tracks. The gym is surrounded by glass, allowing me to see him without audibly notifying him I’m here.

Loud, angry music thumps from within. He’s faced away from the door, bent over a bench, rowing a massive dumbbell. From here I can see the effort, his body glistens with sweat, and was I mad about something? I watch him finish the set and immediately move to a barbell, loaded with weight. He deadlifts it, again and again, muscles straining, grunting through the last few reps.

Oh, holy fucking god.

His movements are precise and methodical. He pushes from one set to the next, never stopping or taking a rest. I move slowly, easing the door open and slipping inside. The room smells like cleaner andhim. Less like the usual smoke that follows him around, and more like the musky scent that I’ve only ever smelled on him. I can’t help myself; I slowly step toward him. He’s back at the bench, bent over it, and doesn’t notice that I’ve stepped up beside him until he drops the dumbbell and rises to his full, towering height.

His muscles are somehow more defined. Thick veins snake down his forearms and hands. His eyes are wild when they meet mine, and I’ve never been into hugely muscular men, but he’s never looked more fuckable than he does right now. His chest heaves, and he reaches for his shirt, using it to wipe sweat from his face, giving me a glimpse of his ridiculous abs. I swear I came down here to give him shit, but all I can manage to say is, “I’m not made of fucking glass.”

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