Page 69 of Creeping Lily
I watchthat dumb fuck Bentley Walker walk away from her. His steps are slow, like he’s not sure he should leave. He doesn’t want to. I can see it in the way his shoulders hunch, in the way his head tilts back toward her even when he’s trying to put distance between them. If it were up to him, he’d plant himself at her side and never move again. But he doesn’t belong there. Not with her. Not like I do.
Lily doesn’t look back. Not once. She just keeps walking, and I watch Bentley stop, turn, her name dying in his throat before it ever reaches her.
If he could keep her forever, he would.
Pathetic loser.
And it makes me want to break something.
I get it—she’s beautiful. I understand why men circle her like starving dogs. But that doesn’t make it easier. I already had to swat away Patrick McCordy with his sad, moony eyes, and Justin Collins with his whiny, clingy little crush. But Bentley Walker? He’s the worst of them.
Bentley Walker is my biggest complication, my biggest thorn. He’s the kind of man the world fawns over—strong jaw, broad shoulders, that easy charm girls confuse for safety. He’s leaving today, or so I’ve heard, but that doesn’t mean I trust him.
When she comes back to her dorm hours later, I’m already inside. I’ve touched everything she’s touched—her desk, her books, the spine of the novel she’s halfway through. I trail my fingers over the places hers have been, like I can catch some echo of her warmth, like if I press hard enough, the connection between us will spark into something physical.
“You really should knock before you enter,” I rasp from behind her.
She freezes. Shoulders tense. Breath catches. She knows I’m here now. I hear the chain on the door slide into place behind me—insurance, in case her roommate comes back too soon.
She doesn’t turn around. Just stands there, breathing slow, shallow. I step closer, letting my presence crowd her. My breath ghosts across the back of her neck. I inhale. Orange blossom. Jasmine. Sweet and sharp and entirely hers. It makes my teeth ache.
“Your best friend finally leave today, Lily?” I ask, voice edged with venom.
A pause, like she’s trying to figure out who I mean. Then: “You mean Bentley?”
She knows. She gets me.
I close the space until my chest is pressed to her back, until I’m practically molding myself around her. “You don’t know how close I came to tearing him apart when I saw his hands on you.”
Her breath shudders out, and I can hear her heart knocking against her ribs.
“Why didn’t you?” she whispers.
I don’t answer. Instead, I slide my fingers into her hair, gather it into a ponytail, and tug until her head tips back. I press my lips to her temple, slow and deliberate. Her skin smells like temptation, and for a second, I imagine peeling it from her bones and wearing it like armor. I want to beinsideher. In her skin, in her blood. I want us fused so tight we can’t ever be separated.
“You don’t know what it does to me, seeing another man touch you.”
She trembles—but it’s not fear I smell. It’s heat. She’s turned on. She wants this.
“Who are you?” she gasps. “I want to see…”
Her hand shoots for my mask, but I step back before she can reach it. I tilt my head, slow and deliberate, and shake it.
“Uh-uh. You see me when I’m ready to show you.”
“Why? What are you hiding from?”
Inquisitive little thing. Always asking questions. Always picking at my edges. I like it more than I should.
“Turn around, Lily.”
She obeys, but I can feel the defiance radiating off her. She wants to play, just not by my rules.
“Hands behind your back,” I tell her.
Her eyes flash, but she does it. I pull the cuffs from my pocket and snap them around her wrists before she can change her mind. She makes a small, caught sound but doesn’t fight me.
I turn her to face me. Her eyes lock on mine, unblinking, as if she’s trying to see past the mask. Even when she’s furious, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—dark chocolate eyes, lips made to ruin men.
