Page 92 of Good Graces

Warren scrubs a hand down his face, and when he looks at me again, there’s something sheepish in his expression.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up,” he mutters. “I’m just . . . on edge.”

I tilt my head. “I put you on edge?”

“You know you do.”

“Mmm,” I say, smiling a little. “And I happen to like when you’reon edge.”

He laughs under his breath, but it’s short and stilted. “Fuck.You really mess with my head, Quinn.”

“And your dick,” I say sweetly.

That gets a full, rough chuckle out of him. The tension in his shoulders eases, and when he looks at me again, it’s softer somehow. Less guarded. We linger there for a while, neither of us quite moving, like we’re both waiting for the other to say something more.

“I’ll text you later,” he says finally, voice quieter now.

“Promise?”

He smirks. “Yeah, promise.”

Instead of letting him walk away, I grab his arm, tugging him back into the quiet stretch of hallway behind me. It’s empty here, quietly tucked away from the steady flow of students still lingering near the exit.

No one can see us or hear us. No one can catch the way my fingers tighten around his sleeve or the way he looks at me like he’s still trying to convince himself I’m not running.

“What—?” he starts, but I’m already closing the gap between us, fingers curling under the cool metal chain at his neck.

His eyes flicker, something sharp and heated sparking there, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets me guide him closer, lets me fist the chain in my hand and tilt his face down to mine.

“You’re wearing it again?”

His gaze drops to my hand—my fingers looped through the silver links—and he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says roughly.

I don’t know what to say next, so I don’t say anything at all. I just tug the chain a little harder, drawing him down, and then I kiss him. Slow and deep and just this side of desperate.

Warren groans low in his throat, and then his hand is at my waist, fingers flexing like he’s trying not to drag me closer but can’t help himself. He leans in, pressing me back against the wall.

His mouth moves with a sharp, hungry edge, like he’s still angry, still strung tight—but now he’s turning all of that into something else. Something that makes my skin burn and my pulse race wildly in my throat.

His tongue flicks against mine, his hand sliding under my shirt, warm and rough and insistent. I gasp, fingers curling tighter around the chain, and Warren groans again—deeper this time, like I’ve knocked the breath from his lungs.

“God,” he mutters, breaking away just long enough to press his mouth to my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. “This is what I needed.”

His kiss turns messier, more desperate, like he’s losing whatever grip he had on control. His fingers dig into my waist, his knee presses between my legs, and I can’t help it—my body arches, chasing the friction.

Finally, finally, he pulls back—just barely—and swipes his thumb across my bottom lip. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling fast like he’s just run a mile in the Carolina heat.

“What was that for?”

“You’re sexy when you’re worked up,” I murmur. “Plus, you’re wearing my chain.”

He exhales hard, shakes his head, and mutters, “Jesus Christ, Quinny.”

“I know.”

He steps back slowly, dragging his thumb down the curve of my hip like he’s not quite ready to let go. Then he turns to leave, and I watch him go—still catching my breath, feeling warm and reckless and entirely too pleased with myself.

Just before he pushes the door open, I call after him. “Hey!”

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