Page 108 of Make the Play

The lights, the chaos, the absolute freedom.

Somewhere behind me, Chase is yelling my name, but the bass is too loud, the pulse of it rattling through my ribs, and I can’t stop.

Because the Vinyl Saints are here, and I’m fully losing my mind.

But then it changes. Too many hands graze my hips, my lower back, my arms, as I push through the crush of people, and suddenly I’m acutely aware that my skirt is too short, that my balance is too unsteady, that I am way too deep in this mass of bodies with no clue where Chase is.

A streak of glow-in-the-dark blue snakes in front of me. Strong, solid arms wrap tight around my waist from behind, elbows digging into the space around me, forcing bodies back like a shield locking into place.

His voice finds my ear, rough and full of pure feral possessiveness.

“If you don’t want me to start breaking fingers, I suggest you stay right where you are.”

A thrill shoots through me, curling low in my stomach. I laugh and almost turn in his arms to shoot something back—a joke, a jab,anythingto break the moment before it gets too real. But I don’t want to. I want to exist in this moment without the sharp edge of awareness digging in between my ribs.

Chase’s arms stay locked around me, and I let myself sink into it, into the security, the warmth of his breath against my neck, the way he’s holding me without hesitation.

The Vinyl Saints launch into their opening song, and I start to move slowly. My hips swaying to the rhythm, my body brushing his. The crowd presses in closer, bodies swaying against mine, but I hardly notice. Not when Chase’s hands flex against my stomach, his thumb stroking once over my hip absently.

I glance back at him and realize he’s not even watching the stage. Just me.

His jaw flexes, the muscle twitching beneath his skin as he brushes his lips at my temple. “You good?”

“You’re brooding,” I reply, words barely audible over the music.

His arms don’t loosen. “I’m thinking.”

I hum, dragging my fingers along the backs of his hands, feeling the way his grip tightens, the way his chest shifts behind me as he inhales a fraction too sharply.

“Dangerous,” I say, voice soft but teasing.

His breath skims my ear, quieter, like he’s forgotten about the crowd pressing in around us.

“Why you looking at me like that?”

I shrug, tilting my head just enough that my cheek brushes his jaw.

“I’m thinking.”

His hands flex against my stomach again, fingers curling into the fabric of my skirt as I parrot his words back to him. And I could leave it there. Ishould.

Instead, I turn my head a little more and bite my lip, then hesitate. Because this is stupid. Reckless. The worst idea I’ve ever had.

“Rule number two.”

“What about it?”

“I have an amendment,” I say. And God, I hate how breathless I sound.

“An amendment,” he repeats. “To your own fucking rule?”

He says it like he’s humoring me, but barely. Like he alreadyknowswhat I’m about to say.

“It’s fine ifIinitiate it.”

His grip locks down on my waist, and his breath pushes roughly past his lips.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

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