Page 52 of Her Name in Red
“Probably,” he agrees easily. “But I'd rather have you.”
The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I glance over, but his profile gives nothing away—jaw set, eyes fixed on the road, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. His knuckles are starting to purple where they connected with Frat Boy's face.
He pulls into the only open spot in front of my building, killing the engine. Grabbing my bag, I hop out of his truck before he comes to do something like open my fucking door for me.
I hear the truck door slam, followed by the beep of the lock.
“I didn't invite you up,” I say without turning around.
“Just like you didn't invite me the countless other times I've been here, and we hung out,” he counters, his voice closer thanI expected. “Stop fucking pushing me away because of the other night when I tasted you.”
I freeze, the words hitting me like a slap. Fucking Riggs, always cutting straight through my bullshit.
“We are not talking about that,” I say, jamming my key into the lock with more force than necessary. The door swings open, and I step into my tiny apartment, not bothering to close it behind me. If he wants to follow, he will. If not, whatever.
I drop my bag on the floor and immediately start peeling off my hoodie. Class was suffocating today, even before the quad incident. Tugging my t-shirt over my head next, I let it fall to the floor as I kick off my boots.
The door clicks shut, and I hear the familiar sound of Riggs' keys and wallet hitting my coffee table. I don't bother turning around as I unbutton my jeans and shimmy them down my legs, stepping out of them with ease and leaving me in just panties and socks.
I pad to the fridge, the old linoleum cool under my socked feet. The chill from the refrigerator washes over my nearly naked body as I grab a bottle of water. Something about the cold feels clarifying after the clusterfuck of a day.
I can feel him watching me from across the tiny room. The weight of his gaze skims over my bare back, my shoulders, the curve where my ass meets the edge of my black panties. I don't give him the satisfaction of turning around or covering up. Let him look and suffer.
“If you don't want to end up in my mouth again or on my dick, then go put something on,” Riggs growls.
I twist the cap off my water bottle, taking a slow, deliberate sip before I turn to face him. He's leaning against my kitchen counter, knuckles white where he grips the edge like he's physically restraining himself.
“It's my apartment,” I say, one eyebrow raised. “I'll wear what I want.”
“You know exactly what you're doing.” His jaw tightens, that muscle twitching again.
“Maybe I just don't like clothes.” I take another sip, letting a drop of water slide down my chin, my throat, between my breasts. His eyes track its path like a predator.
“And maybe I don't like being fucking tortured,” he counters, running a hand through his hair. There's a thin sheen of sweat at his temples despite the cool air. “You want me to leave? Fine. But don't fucking play games.”
“Who's playing?” I set the water bottle on the counter, crossing my arms under my breasts, pushing them up slightly. It's a power move, and we both know it. “You're the one who followed me home.”
“What are we doing here, Maren?” he asks, voice quieter now. “You push me away, then parade around half-naked. You let me touch you last week, let me taste you, then ghost me for days. What the fuck do you want from me?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy, and my eye twitches from being put on the spot. What do I want from him? Safety? Destruction? Both?
“I don't know,” I answer honestly, the words scraping my throat. “I don't know what I want.”
He stares at me for a long moment, chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Something shifts in his expression. Before I can react, Riggs closes the distance between us in two long strides.
“I'm done waiting for you to figure it out,” he says, voice low and rough.
His body cages me, the cool metal at my back contrasting with the heat radiating from him. He doesn't touch me yet, just hovers there, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face,count each of his eyelashes. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
“Golden b—” I start, but the word dies in my throat as his hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about him in this moment.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn't gentle. It's possession, pure and simple. His lips claim mine with an intensity that steals the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. It feels like when you’re spiraling out of control and finally you put your headphones on and can focus on one single thing. I’m not spiraling anymore; my headphones are his hands and his mouth is my music and all I can focus on is this.
My hands hang useless at my sides for a moment, my brain struggling to catch up to what's happening. He angles my face exactly how he wants it, his other hand gripping my hip, fingers digging into bare skin. It feels like I’m being consumed from the inside out.
Something in me surrenders. I let my body melt into his, letting him take my weight as my knees weaken. My hands find their way to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, longer on top and shorter at the sides. I stroke through it, feeling the silky texture against my palms, tugging slightly when his teeth graze my bottom lip.
