Page 23 of The Bastard's Lily
“No. Say it like that again.” His eyes flick down to my mouth.
Goddamn it.
I tear my gaze away, back to the floor. “This doesn’t change anything.”
He leans in, so close his shoulder brushes mine, warm and solid. “Then why are you still wearing my shirt?”
“Because I didn’t have anything else!”
He smirks. “That’s not why.”
“I will scream,” I hiss. “I swear to God.”
He lowers his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Do it. Wake him up. Make me stop.”
We’re nose to nose now. The tension is a live wire sparking between our knees. I should move. I don’t.
“I hate you,” I breathe.
He tilts his head, just enough. “You never did.”
My next breath gets caught in the cradle of his mouth. And then he kisses me. Hard. Quiet. Like it’s been bottled up for years, and this is the first crack in the dam. My hands go to his chest before I can stop them, not to push him away—but to feel. To remember. To lose. He kisses me like I’m still his. And I hate how much I want to be.
“I dreamed about it,” Rook mutters, voice rough, like it scraped the words from the back of his throat.
I blink, still breathless from the kiss. My lips are swollen, my pulse is a runaway train, and his forehead is nearly pressed to mine.
“What?” I whisper stupidly, because Iheardhim.
“Last night,” he says, lips brushing mine with every word. “You. Under me. Wrapped around me. So fucking warm.”
I shudder. He doesn’t stop.
“I woke up hard. Still hard, Calla. Like my body didn’t know it was a dream. Like it thought you were still mine.”
“You can’t say that.”
“Ididn’tmake you stop last night,” he whispers, eyes heavy with something wicked and raw. “You remember? You started it, and I let you. Because, fuck—I missed you.”
His hand is braced against the couch behind me, caging me in, his body a solid line of heat. Every inch of him crowds me without touching, and I can feel theachebetween us like a loaded gun on the table.
“You were so goddamn wet,” he says, voice low and sinful. “Clenching around me like you’d never let go.”
“Stop,” I breathe, but I don’t move.
His nose brushes mine. “I felt like I was home.”
God help me, I want to cry. Or crawl into his lap. Or scream. His hand shifts—just barely grazing my thigh—and I flinch like it burned.
“Rook…” I warn.
His forehead presses against mine. “Say you didn’t feel it too. I dare you.”
My eyes slam shut.
“I shouldn’t have,” I whisper.
“But you did,” he says. “And I did. And I want to again.”
