Page 42 of Red Zone
“Shit,” he mutters, looking down at me with those storm-cloud eyes. “You okay?”
My skin is still buzzing from the contact, but I square my shoulders and nod, heart thudding way too hard.
“Fine,” I say, pulling my headphones the rest of the way off. “Didn’t expect anyone to be in here.”
“Same,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges.
We stand there, too close, too silent, the air thick with something we’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.
I finally take a step back, grabbing my towel like a shield. “I was just leaving.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes dragging from my face to my bare stomach and back up again, slow enough I feel it like a touch. “I can see that.”
His hands don’t drop.
They’re still on my waist—hot, steady, like he’s forgotten how to let go.
My breath catches.
Every part of me tenses, but not in fear. In anticipation. In that electric, aching pause where the smart thing to do is walk away. Again.
But I don’t move.
And neither does he.
My eyes flick to his, and the storm I find there nearly knocks the wind out of me. He looks like he’s at war with himself. Like he’s been holding something back for weeks, and it’s starting to slip.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
His fingers flex slightly, like he’s grounding himself. “I don’t know.”
The words land between us, raw and reckless.
Then his hand slides up, not fast—carefully—as if he’s giving me time to stop him. His palm brushes the side of my rib cage, then curves behind my back, pulling me in until we’re chest to chest, sweat and heat and breath tangled between us.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t let this happen again.
But his eyes are locked on mine like I’m the only thing in the world.
And when his mouth crashes into mine, I let it happen.
With zero reservation.
Just fire and frustration and weeks of avoidance collapsing into one desperate, burning kiss.
He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my lips as he presses me back into the wall beside the treadmill, his hands anchoring me there like he can’t risk me disappearing again.
I grip his shoulders without thinking, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin, and I hate that I remember exactly how he feels under my hands.
I hate it.
And I want more.
His mouth is on mine like it never should’ve left.
His body is all around me—hands on my hips, chest pressed to mine, heat rolling off him like he was built to ruin people, and I’m just the next one in line.
My head tilts back as his lips trail down my jaw, and I feel his teeth graze just under my ear. A breath escapes me—traitorous and shaky—and my fingers grip harder onto his shoulders like I need to hold on or I’ll drown.
