Page 44 of The Reaper
He hadn't flinched at all.
He’d touched me like I was the one who needed softening. Like there was something inside me worth coaxing out—not conquering. Like I was already molten under the surface, and he just had to find the crack.
And he had. Fast.
The sex had been hot, yes. Intense, hungry. But there was something else, too—something in the way he looked at mewhen I came apart. He hadn’t just watched. He’d studied. Like he wanted to remember every twitch, every gasp, every hesitation.
And when I mentioned the Danes?
His expression had shifted for a second. Just a flicker. Surprise, maybe. Intrigue. I’d almost missed it, but it had been there.
I slid into one of the stools at the counter and pulled my notebook toward me again, pretending to read through my scrawl. But my thoughts kept drifting.
What was it about him?
He wasn’t just a fling. Or rather—he was, but not only. There was something about him that had seeped into me, low and warm and pulsing just under the skin. Something I couldn’t quite name.
And then I realized it.
He’d made me want more.
Not of him, necessarily. But of everything. More brilliance. More courage. More flavor, more risk. Since he’d touched me, my senses had been dialed up like a stereo on full blast. I couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop building, couldn’t stop craving.
He’d become a muse.
And that scared the hell out of me.
Because muses left. Or they changed. Or they demanded too much in return.
I wasn’t a woman who let herself be distracted. Not by pleasure. Not by praise. Not even by desire. I was focused, driven. I’d sacrificed everything for this place. This dream. The star.
And yet …
I reached for my phone.
I didn’t open my contacts. Not yet. Just held it in my hand, the weight of it too deliberate to ignore.
What would I even say?
Hey, remember me? The woman you fucked?
I opened my texts and scrolled to his name.
It stared back at me. Caleb Dane.
Even his name looked too sharp for my screen.
I hovered over the keyboard, fingers still.
What was I even hoping for? A repeat? A distraction? Or something deeper?
I didn’t want deep.
I couldn’t.
Still, the thought of him had lit a fuse inside me. His mouth, his hands.
I thought of his mouth on my neck. The heat in his eyes. The strength in his body—not just physical, but something in his stillness. His control.
