Page 18 of Stalked
We pull up to a small apartment complex on the edge of town. It's not run-down exactly, but definitely modest. Nothing like the two-story house I grew up in.
“It's not much,” he says, reading my thoughts as he parks the car.
“It's fine,” I say quickly.
Inside, the apartment is small but surprisingly tidy. There's a stack of textbooks on the coffee table, a few superhero actionfigures lined up on a shelf that must belong to Knox, and mismatched furniture that somehow works together.
“Is everyone asleep?” I whisper, noticing how quiet it is.
“Knox and Landon are at a friend's house tonight. Come on.”
He leads me down a narrow hallway to a bedroom at the end. Two twin beds sit against opposite walls, the space between them tight but organized. One side has posters of bands I recognize, clothes hanging neatly in an open closet. The other is more sparse, with only a couple of framed photos and a small bookshelf.
“You share the room?” I ask, wrapping an arm around myself. The reality of what we're about to do hits me all at once.
“Yeah, with Xavier.” Vane steps closer, his hands finding my waist. “He's working the night shift. Won't be home until morning.”
I nod, trying to push away the sudden wave of nerves. This is really happening. I'm in Vane Blackwood's bedroom. The boy who has tormented and fascinated me since my freshman year.
He steps away briefly, reaching for a silver flask on his nightstand. “Want some? It might help with the nerves.”
“Whiskey?” I ask, eyeing the flask.
“Yeah.”
“No thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “I want to remember everything.”
Vane's eyes flash with something dangerous, and a slow smirk spreads across his face. “Trust me, you'll remember every second of tonight.”
Before I can respond, he closes the distance between us, his hand sliding behind my neck as he pulls me to him. His lips crash against mine, and unlike that brief, stolen kiss at the party, this feels different—deliberate, consuming.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against mine, and somethinginside me ignites. My hands move up his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his dress shirt. The gentle boy who charmed my parents is gone, replaced by this hungry, demanding version that makes my knees weak.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, down my back, pulling me impossibly closer. I match his intensity, rising on tiptoes to press against him fully. The delicate material of my dress feels like a frustrating barrier between us.
“God, Lia,” he groans against my mouth, and hearing my name like that—breathless, desperate—sends a thrill through me.
Without breaking the kiss, I fumble with his tie, yanking it loose. He gets the message, pulling back just enough to rip his shirt open and shrug it off.
I freeze, my breath catching at the sight of him. The lean muscles of his chest and abdomen are defined in the dim light of his bedroom. A tattoo I never knew existed curves around his right shoulder—something tribal that disappears around his back.
“See something you like?” He asks, that arrogant edge back in his voice.
My hands move of their own accord, fingers tracing the contours of his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. “You're so beautiful,” I whisper, surprised by my own honesty.
The vulnerability in my voice seems to affect him. His cocky expression softens for a moment, and he catches my hands with his own, pressing them more firmly against his chest.
“My wildflower,” he murmurs, so quietly I barely catch it. His eyes search mine with unexpected tenderness. “I've waited so long for this.”
The nickname catches me off guard, making my heart flutter in a way that has nothing to do with nervousness and everything to do with how intimate it sounds on his lips.
“I need to fucking feast on you, Lia,” Vane whispers, his eyes darkening as he looks down at me. Before I can respond, he's guiding me backward until my legs hit the edge of his bed. His hands on my shoulders are gentle but firm as he lowers me onto the mattress.
“Vane,” I whisper, my voice trembling as he hovers over me.
His hands slide up my legs, bunching the silky material of my prom dress around my waist. The cool air hits my exposed skin, and I fight the urge to close my legs. No one has ever seen me like this before.
“These are in my way,” he growls, fingers hooking around the sides of my panties. With one swift motion, he tears the delicate fabric, the sound of it ripping making me gasp. He tosses the ruined underwear aside, his eyes never leaving mine as he positions himself between my thighs.
