Page 24 of The Contract

And when he groans—it fires me up, full throttle.

Static under my skin.

Fire in my blood.

Like I was made for this.

For him.

When I finally break away—gasping, heart pounding, every nerve screaming—it’s over.

The heat fizzles.

Like the last sparkler on the Fourth of July. Still warm, but gone.

He licks his lips. “That was…nice.”

“Nice?”

So a psycho killer called my kiss nice in that dismissive it’s not you, it’s me way. Why do I care?

Still, the word lands heavy in my gut. A ball of lead, soaked in straight gasoline.

Humiliation ignites into fury, flames licking through every thread of my Scottish DNA.

I stare him down.

That sharp jaw. That wall of a militant stance. A body carved by the Gods and kissed by Satan.

To him, I’m nothing more than a flavor. As meaningful as a stick of gum he’s tired of chewing and ready to spit out.

All I manage to squeak out is, “Can I go now?”

Pathetic, Riley.

Which is not exactly my fault. The man’s presence alone steals oxygen and makes the space feel smaller.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me. Like I’m a puzzle so close to being solved.

And I hate it.

Hate the silence.

Hate the heat coiling low in my chest, the way my body betrays the roaring bonfire up my neck and cheeks.

But more than that, I hate that some sick, twisted part of me wants to be tarnished by him.

Wants to be touched and torn apart, shattered and understood, in all the ways I could never figure out.

His to solve.

And for that,

I hate?—

me.

He tilts his head and speaks.

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