Page 33 of Trick of the Flesh
The night’s cold,the grass wet under my shoes. I lean against the fence, forcing deep breaths. The music thumps through the walls, the laughter spilling out in bursts, but out here it’s just me and the ache crawling under my skin.
And then he’s there.
Miguel slips out of the shadows like he owns them. No warning, no sound, just suddenly pressed against me, body heat pinning me to the wood.
“Boo,” he murmurs against my ear.
I shudder. “Miggy?—”
“You thought you could ignore me tonight?” His hand curls around my jaw, tilting my face up. “That you could play normal while I’m right here, watching? Tsk tsk, little brother.”
“Someone will see,” I whisper, panic flaring, my eyes darting to the back door of the house.
His mouth brushes mine in almost a kiss. “That’s the fun part. Almost getting caught.” His lips ghost over mine, and I’m aching for them to press against mine.
Please kiss me.
Please touch me.
My knees nearly give out. His grip tightens, steadying me.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice like smoke and fire. “Even here. Especially here. It doesn’t matter who’s around—maybe I should kiss you in front of that girl. That way, she knows who you belong to.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t answer. I don’t have to.
Miguel presses one last kiss to the corner of my mouth, chaste but devastating. His hand lingers on my hip, fingers digging in just enough to remind me I crave him this way.
Possessive.
“Go back inside,” he says, eyes gleaming, pushing back some hair behind my ear. His hand trails down to the fake blood, and he smirks. “Act normal. I’ll find you later.”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me shaking against the fence, heart slamming like it’s trying to break free of my ribs.
I’m going to die if he doesn’t kiss me tonight.
The party noise swells from inside, distant and unreal. Laughter, shouting, music.
I’m his now. There’s no running from it.
I stand outside longerthan I should, trying to stop shaking, trying to remember how to breathe. My palms are clammy against the rough wood of the fence. When I finally force myself back in, the warmth and noise hit me all at once. People are laughing, shouting, and spilling drinks. Music thunders, bass rattling through the floorboards and the windows.
I slip into the kitchen and grab another beer just so I’ll look busy. My friends are nowhere in sight, already swallowed by the crowd. For a second, I almost think Miguel’s gone, too. Relief and disappointment twist together in my gut.
But then I feel it. That prickle down my spine, that sense of being hunted.
I glance across the room. He’s there, leaning against the wall, talking to some guy in a pirate costume, his expression easy, casual. But his eyes—on mine, as if he’s undressing me already.
Heat floods my chest. I look away fast, swallow half my drink in one go, and try to lose myself in the crowd.
Someone drags me into the living room for another round of beer pong. I laugh when I’m supposed to be throwing a ball that bounces hopelessly off the rim and let myself get pulled into the noise and the mess. But it all feels fake.That’s how it is with me, though. Fake it till you make it.Every time I risk a glance, he’s closer. Not obvious, not enough for anyone else to notice, but I can feel him closing the distance like the walls are moving in.
By the time I get a chance to sneak away to the bathroom, my pulse is wild. I lock the door, lean over the sink, and splash cold water on my face. My reflection looks wrecked—flushed, wide-eyed, and drunk.
Everyone will know.
It feels like my skin still carries his fingerprints.
A knock rattles the door. “Hurry up, man!” someone yells.
