Page 34 of Sweet Venom
He goes even faster, as if testing those limits.
Seeing how far I can last before I fall.
I close my eyes half of the time, scared we’ll crash or that he’ll send us flying off a hill.
In my doomsday thoughts, I don’t feel when we leave Stantonville and only realize we’re in Graystone Ridge after seeing the sign between the grand angels and horses monument in the town center.
I’m dazzled by the lights, the chic restaurants, and the absolute absence of…well, the constant rotten smell lathering Stantonville’s streets.
The cobbled pavements and the bright signs give me a fuzzy feeling, like the start of a fairy tale or a distant fantasy.
Dahlia has always said we should come here for our movie and dinner nights, but I shut it down. Not only because it’s expensive, but I also don’t like seeing a world I can never belong to.
Like a dream that will never come true. I’d rather stay exactly where I belong—in Stantonville.
We leave the town center behind too soon as Jude takes a few turns.
He stops in the driveway of a house on a suburban street. It’s located on the hill, the highest of all the other streets.
My lips part upon seeing the rest of the town from up here, its glinting lights mesmerizing like a movie scene. The air smells of pine and nature, courtesy of the tall trees lining the neighborhood.
“Are you going to continue hugging me for long?”
I startle at Jude’s gruff voice, letting him go and hopping off the bike. “I was only trying to stay alive. You drive like a madman.”
My feet actually wobble when they touch the ground, probably from having my body fully pumped with adrenaline during that wild ride.
“A madman, huh?” He towers over me, peering down at me with menace.
I lower my eyes and start to remove the helmet. “I didn’t mean to call you names.”
“You did.” His glove brushes against my hand as he pushes it away when he sees me struggling, and he removes the helmet and places it on the motorcycle.
Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, and the leather glove feels like burning fire even though he’s not touching me directly.
I shouldn’t have this reaction to his skin on mine.
Or his glove.
I shouldn’t have this reaction to anyone touching me.
He bunches his fingers in my hair and drags my head back, and then his lips brush against mine.
The slightest graze.
Like a promise—or a threat.
His lips are softer than they look and they feel so full and all-consuming. Imploring, dizzying.
And I’m frozen again, my mouth trembling beneath his, and I’m consumed by the sensation.
The pull.
The heat.
I’ve had full-blown sex that didn’t feel as intoxicating as his lips barely touching mine.
No.
