Page 31 of Red Zone
It’s every insult, every glare, every unspoken thing we’ve been shoving down since day one.
Her hands fist in my shirt. Mine grip her waist like she’s an anchor.
We stumble back against the door, our breathing hard, lips swollen.
And when she pulls back, she whispers, voice hoarse, “This doesn’t mean anything.”
I nod, but don’t believe it.
“Whatever you say, Princess,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “This okay?”
Her eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. She nods once.
That’s all I need.
I reach for her.
One hand around the back of her neck, the other sliding around her waist, pulling her in fast enough to steal her breath.
Our mouths crash together again. Her hands tug me closer, and I groan against her lips, feeling her melt and push back all at once.
We move toward the bed, her jacket slipping off her shoulders, my hands roaming her sides. I grip her hips, lifting her just enough to drop her onto the mattress, crawling over her without hesitation.
Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively. Her fingers are already tugging my shirt up, knuckles grazing bare skin. I break the kiss just long enough to rip it over my head and toss it across the room.
Her eyes sweep down my chest, and that look alone nearly undoes me.
She leans up, pressing kisses down my jaw to my neck, biting hard enough to make me hiss. I grip the hem of her shirt, eyes asking for permission. She nods, breath hot against my skin.
Off it goes.
And then she’s under me in nothing but a bra and jeans, skin flushed and eyes dark. I kiss her collarbone, then lower, my mouth claiming every inch she’ll give me.
My hands find her back, pausing at the clasp of her bra. I look at her again, and my voice is rough when I ask, “Okay?”
She nods, biting her lip.
I unhook it slowly, savoring the moment, then toss it aside and kiss her like she’s the only thing keeping me alive.
Her nails dig into my back, our bodies grinding together with too many clothes still in the way.
My hips roll into hers, and I feel her arch beneath me, her breath catching.
She tugs at my belt, fumbling with the buckle. I help her with the button on her jeans, fingers brushing hot skin as I slide the denim down her thighs. She gasps when I press my hand along the inside of her thigh.
I’m hard and aching, her body warm and soft beneath me, everything about this spiraling into need. She palms the front of my jeans, and I swear under my breath, grinding into her hand as I kiss her again, harder, deeper.
Her hands are at my waistband, my fingers at hers?—
The door bursts open.
“Shit—sorry!” someone says, drunk and laughing. “Didn’t know anyone was in here. I was looking for the bathroom.”
I jerk away instinctively as the door shuts, heart hammering, while Lyla practically launches off the bed. Her eyes go wide as she scans the room for something—anything—to cover herself.
She dives for the floor, snatching up the first thing she sees: my hoodie. It’s oversized and already inside out, but she pulls it over her head like her life depends on it. The sleeves hang past her hands, and it swallows her frame, the hem brushing her thighs before she yanks her jeans back up quickly.
Her hair is a mess, skin flushed and lips kiss-swollen as she bends to grab her shirt from the floor with trembling fingers. Her breathing is still ragged, chest rising and falling beneath the fabric as she shoves her shirt into the front pocket, barely looking at me.
