Page 52 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Godrik’s tongue is tangled with Jessica’s. One taste of him, and she can think of nothing else. Having not had his mouth in days, the memory of his kiss faded around the edges, she can’t silence her whimper at the glorious reminder.

When he angles his head and kisses her deeper, her whole body responds. Without even thinking about it, she’s pressed up against him, her arms around his middle as she pushes up on her tiptoes, wanting more. He growls—growls—and she can feel it vibrating from his chest as it pours into her mouth. A surge of wetness between her legs makes her squirm. When he extracts his other hand from his pocket and slides his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, she moans. In that moan, she acknowledges if he wanted to strip her naked and make her his on the bare, hard floor, she’d oblige.Happily.

When Godrik slows down their kiss and pulls away leisurely, it takes her a second to open her eyes. The moment she looks up into his perfectly blue gaze, she knows she can’t deny him. Not with his taste on her lips. Not with his hand fisted in her hair. Not with his warmth all around her.

“Judging by that kiss, I’d say we’re agreed.”

“I—I have an apartment,” she stammers, her voice still airy and breathless.

“Here the rent is paid for.”

Swallowing hard, Jessica forces herself to think rationally, difficult as it seems in the moment. “I—I can’t give up my apartment.”

Godrik studies her for what feels like a long time. She sees it in his eyes—an understanding of sorts. Jessica isn’t sure what it is he thinks he understands; but his hand moves in her hair, as if he’s massaging her scalp, and she melts into him in response. The slightest smirk curls the corner of his mouth, and her gaze falls to stare at it as she unconsciously leans into him even more.

“Tomorrow morning,” he murmurs, his voice low and gentle. “Nine a.m. Michelle will meet you here to discuss filling the place. I’ll leave your set of keys with her, so she has access to the loft until it’s done. I want it done by Friday. Keep your apartment if you must. You’re still welcome here any time, day or night.”

Jessica nods, still trapped in a daze.

Then he tells her something unexpected. Something that makes her gut wrench in guilt at the same time her stomach clenches in excitement.

“From now on, I’m Khalohn. Khalohn Morgan.”

Wow, she sighs internally.Nowthat’sa name.

Before Jessica can eventhinkabout offering him her real name in return, his lips are pressed to hers in a hard, closed-mouth kiss. He lingers only for a moment before he squeezes her hip and takes a step back. Mercifully, he holds on to her for a second longer—long enough for Jessica to take responsibility of her balance—and then he lets her go.

Jessica pulls ona sweatshirt over her rehearsal clothes and then straps on her backpack. The other students call out their goodbyes and she waves, relieved for the end of the day. Since she started taking extra dance classes at a studio her mom found in Tribeca, dancing under the instruction of Edward Timson has lost its sparkle. Not that she’d ever speak such a thing out loud. She knows how hard it is to be a student at the Brooklyn High School of the Arts. She knows her mom fought to get her in; and while grumbling about Timson won’t likely cause her to lose her scholarship, she won’t take any chances. She’s grateful for the opportunity to have advanced contemporary dance be on her schedule as one of her core classes.

Making her way out of the studio, she reaches up and tightens her ponytail, which started to droop during class. Her stomach rumbles and she smiles, thinking of her best friend, Hugh. When she reaches her locker, she pulls out her phone, certain he won’t turn her down when she suggests homework and a salty snack. After she exchanges the books in her bag for the notebooks and textbooks she’ll need to complete that night’s assignments, she checks her phone for a reply from Hugh. When she finds nothing, she heads toward the front entryway, wondering if he might already be waiting for her outside.

She steps into the cool autumn air, and the breeze sends a bunch of dry, dead leaves skittering across the sidewalk. Grabbing hold of the straps of her backpack, she keeps her eyes peeled for Hugh. He’s usually not hard to find, especially not since he died his shoulder-length hair dark blue. It still surprises her how much trouble he got into over that. One would think having an artist for a mother might give him a little rebellious leeway. However, given the rundown of his parent’s reaction, it didn’t take much to figure out Elsa Rockwell had had a little too much success and a few too many years married to Dr. Matthew Thompson—snooty psychologist and heir to whatever mommy and daddy leave behind.

Honestly, it’s a wonder Huey’s as normal as he is…blue hair and all, she thinks, scanning the area a second time.

A frown pulls at her brow when she spots him. He’s across the street, his back pressed up against a tree, and some big bully in his face. Jessica barely stops to look for traffic before she races to him, yelling at the guy pegging him to the rigid bark of the trunk.

“What the hell? Get off him!” She tugs at his arm and recognizes his face right away. “Seriously, lay off, Duke.”

Hugh does nothing to defend himself but merely glares at his aggressor.

Duke’s lip curls as he gives Jessica a once over. “You want to take me on, Chapman?” He shoves Hugh aside and reaches for his junk as he says, “I’ll wrestle with you any time you want, baby.”

“Fuck off,” grumbles Hugh.

At the same time, Jessica bites, “Ew. You’re an asshole. Just leave us alone.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles before taking his leave.

Jessica watches him go and then heaves a sigh, turning to her friend. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He reaches down for his messenger bag, draping it over his shoulder as he insists, “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t ask where they’re going but follows his lead. “What did he say to you? Are you sure you’re okay?”

Hugh ignores her question, running his fingers through his navy locks, pulling the strands away from his face.

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