Page 122 of Without a Trace
Trace stepped in first, slow and deliberate, heat bleeding off him like wildfire.
Alden followed, brushing past me with a low murmur—“Fucking hell”—his fingers grazing my waist.
I turned, closed the door, and leaned against it for a moment.
They stood in the center of the room watching me like I was about to unmake the world.
And maybe I was.
I walked toward them, every step quiet, robe grazing my hips.
“You’re here because you want me,” I said. “So let’s be clear.”
I stopped in front of them, heart thundering, mouth dry.
“I’m not yours. But tonight, you’re mine.”
Scarlett
The robe hit the floor. Soft. Final.
Neither of them moved at first.
Trace’s eyes were heavy, breath shallow. His chest heaved once—like he was holding something in, or about to let everything out.
Alden didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared as if he’d imagined this moment a hundred times and still hadn’t prepared for the reality of it.
I stood there—bare, unashamed, fire licking at the edges of my skin—silent.
Trace moved first, crossing the room with purpose. One hand cupped my jaw, the other slid to my waist.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my mouth. “Scarlett.”
And he kissed me.
God, did he kiss me.
It was all bite and broken rules, his hands gripping my hips, torn between reverence and restraint. I fisted his hair, moaned in his mouth, thighs pressing together, desperate for friction.
Behind us, Alden still hadn’t moved.
But I felt him.
Watching.
Burning.
Trace kissed me with the fury of someone who hated how much he still loved me.
Eventually he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes black with want.
“I swear to fucking god,” he rasped, “I’ve dreamed about this.”
I turned toward Alden, voice a whisper now.
“And you?”
“Since the day I met you.”
