Page 96 of The Players We Hate
He leaned in, his grin sharp. “Yeah, but you can’t getenough of me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Maybe not,” he said, “but you’re smiling. So I’m doing something right.”
I bit down on my lip, but it was useless—I was giving myself away. “Don’t push your luck.”
His smirk deepened. “Too late.”
The way he looked at me stopped me cold. My chest ached, my stomach flipped, and every beat of my heart pounded louder than the music. I let myself believe he really saw me.
The party raged on—shouts, laughter, bass shaking the walls—but it all blurred. I wasn’t the governor’s daughter, or Wells Perry’s sister, or the girl carrying too many secrets.
I was just a girl in his jersey, laughing with a guy who wouldn’t let me disappear. And for once, I let myself believe I deserved it.
Talon leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “Come upstairs with me.”
Before I could answer, his hand found mine again. We pushed through the crowd, weaving between bodies until we broke free at the base of the stairs. My pulse hammered with every step we climbed, nerves tangling with anticipation.
At the end of the hall, Talon eased open the door. The faint scent of vanilla and lavender hung in the air, and the art supplies scattered on the desk, along with the plants lined up on the windowsill, told me it was Tatum’s room. She slept in Reed’s now, which meant she’d given us this one.
The door clicked shut behind us, muting the music downstairs until it felt far away. My heart raced as I turnedtoward him, and before I could stop myself, I reached up and pulled his mouth to mine.
The kiss was hungry, nothing careful about it. My hands slid into his hair and yanked him closer, nerves sparking in my chest but not nearly enough to slow me down. For once, I wasn’t waiting on him. I was choosing this.
“Wren,” he muttered against my mouth, breath rough, like he couldn’t believe I meant it.
I pressed harder, my body flush to his, refusing to let him question it. “I do,” I whispered against his lips. “I want you. I want this.”
His hands landed on my hips, too tentative, holding back. The hesitation only pushed me further. I pulled back just enough to catch his eyes, daring him to see how certain I was.
“What does it mean to be yours?” I asked, my voice low.
His brows pulled tight, but he didn’t look away. “It means you’re my girl. My girlfriend. It means no one else touches you. No one else even gets to try.” His thumb dragged slow across my waist, his voice rough. “It means you’re mine, Wren. All mine.”
The word sent a jolt straight through me. I smiled against his mouth and kissed him hard. “Good. Because I want to be your girlfriend.”
He froze, just for a second, like the words hit deeper than he was ready for. Then his mouth curved into a smile that looked half relief, half hunger, and it undid me.
I slid my hands down his chest, lower, my lips brushing his jaw. “And as your girlfriend, I want to take care of you.”
“Wren…” His voice was strained now, warning and want colliding.
“I want to make you feel good,” I cut him off, tilting my face up so he could see it in my eyes. “I’ve never wanted anything more. Let me.”
His breath came out rough, his hands tightening on me. When he finally gave a small nod, the last of his hesitation was gone.
I kissed him again, slow at first, threading my fingers into his hair and tugging until his mouth opened for me. The low sound he made when I deepened the kiss sent a shiver down my spine.
I pushed him back until his legs hit the desk chair. He dropped into it, eyes locked on me the whole time. I followed, straddling his lap, my knees braced on either side of him.
That was when something in him gave. His hands clamped onto my hips, holding me there like he wasn’t letting go.
I kissed him harder, pouring everything I felt into it. My fingers dug deeper into his hair until he groaned against my mouth, the sound sparking heat through every part of me.
He shifted beneath me, his muscles tight, the kind of strain that told me he was holding back. I pressed my mouth to his jaw, then down his throat, tasting the salt on his skin. His breath caught, his hands clamping on my thighs, but he stayed still.
“Wren,” he groaned, almost broken.
