Page 28 of The Players We Hate
I hesitated, then shook my head. “Not even a little.”
The silence between us stretched, thick and charged. Then he leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “Then maybe we stop pretending.”
My heart thundered in my chest.
And for the first time all night, the cold, stifling weight of everything I was trying to outrun—the dinner, the campaign talk, my mother’s sideway glances—faded to white noise.
Talon wasn’t looking at me like I was a carefully packaged version of someone else. He was looking at me like I was the only one in the room. And I didn’t want to run anymore.
His gaze flicked to my mouth, and before I could second-guess it, his hand rose to cup my cheek, brushing his thumb along my jaw, as if he was memorizing the way it fit in his palm.
Then he kissed me.
Hard.
There was no hesitation this time. No wondering if we’d regret it in the morning. Just heat and hunger and a desperate pull that ignited something I hadn’t felt in days, something buried under phony dinners, hollow smiles, and the weight of pretending I was fine.
The cold concrete wall hit my back as he pressed into me, and I gasped against his mouth, the shock of it making every nerve light up. I clutched at his hoodie, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to him in a way that kept me tethered to the ground.
He groaned low in his throat, hands sliding down my sides, gripping my hips like he’d been dreaming about this. About me. His fingers flexed as he dragged my body tighter against his, as if he couldn't get close enough.
I dropped my purse to the floor with a thud, not caring where it landed, my fingers diving under his sweatshirt, clawing at the cotton, desperate to feel him.
He pulled back slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, and his voice came out rough.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
My breath hitched.
His lips brushed the shell of my ear as he whispered, “I’ve been hard all week thinking about you… the way you sounded. The way you felt. Fuck, Wren. I want you so bad it’s driving me insane.”
A whimper escaped me. I didn’t mean to make a sound, but I was already unraveling. The sound of my name in that voice—low and commanding—sent a shiver down my spine.
And just like that, I snapped.
I surged forward, grabbing the front of his hoodie and yanking him into me, my mouth crashing onto his like I needed him to breathe. He stumbled a step but caught himself, bracing one hand against the wall beside my head, the other sliding down to my ass and pulling me into the hard press of him.
I moaned into him, gasping when he ground his hips into mine, the friction so good it made my knees go weak.
“More,” I breathed against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”
His teeth grazed my bottom lip as he kissed me deeper, rougher. His hand slid beneath the hem of my shirt, splaying wide over my ribs.
“You make me fucking crazy,” he muttered, grinding into me again, harder this time. “You think I haven’t seen the way you walk around like none of it touched you? Like you never even cared?”
“I didn’t,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
His hands were everywhere—my waist, my thighs, my back, desperate to touch every inch of me. He lifted me effortlessly, locking my legs around his waist.
We were lost in each other. Drowning in everything we hadn’t said, everything we still wanted to.
Every thrust sent a jolt of heat through me, and I was so far gone I forgot where we were or who might see us.
Until the sharp creak of the front door swinging open split the air. Laughter rang out. Loud and jarring.
Two girls came in from the football parade, bundled in oversized sweatshirts and clutching iced drinks. Their sneakers squeaked on the tile as they turned the corner, only to freeze when they saw us.
One of them gasped. The other snorted.
