Page 37 of The Rookie

Slow. Knowing.

And then, without a word, he takes my hand.

He doesn’t pull. Doesn’t tug.

Just laces his fingers through mine and walks.

And I follow.

We weave back inside, through the crowd, past our classmates, past prying eyes—until we reach the stairs leading up to the empty VIP lounge.

My pulse skitters, but I don’t stop him.

We step into the dimly lit upstairs dance floor, where the music is louder, thicker, the bass pounding in my chest, my blood.

There are no professors here. No classmates watching. No one who matters.

Just us.

Griffin turns to face me, his fingers still tangled with mine. The way he’s looking at me—like he knows exactly where this is going—sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

I don’t get a chance to second-guess it before he’s pulling me in, pressing our bodies flush.

I inhale sharply.

Oh.

Oh, damn.

Because I can feel him.

All of him.

Hard. Strong. Unapologetic.

And the worst part? I like it.

The music sears through us, the heavy bass matching the pulse between my legs as we fall into the rhythm, our bodies moving in sync, locked in, tangled.

His hands roam—my hips, my waist, my spine—slow, deliberate, exploring as I press against him, let him pull me closer.

His breath skims my ear. “You’re driving me crazy, Sinclair.”

I whimper. Actually whimper.

Because his voice, low and rough in my ear, his body against mine, his hands gripping my waist—it’s too much and not enough, all at once.

I should stop.

I should say something smart, something biting, remind him I don’t like him, that this is just fun, just nothing.

But instead, I tilt my head, brush my lips against the edge of his jaw, and feel the way his grip tightens.

His breath catches.

The music pulses, the crowd moves around us, but right now, in this moment, it’s just us.

And I am so damn far past denying it.

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