Page 31 of First Verse

Never again.

I’m so engrossed in my book, my ears dismiss the first knock as a part of the music playing on my nearby speaker. It isn’t until the song ends that I register the sound of a fist pounding on my front door.

Then his voice. “Evangeline!”

I rocket to my feet. My stomach doesn’t come with me, clinging to the couch cushions, most of the blood in my head racing to join it. For ten frenzied seconds, my body is a statue while my mind erupts like Vesuvius.

He’s here.

Why is he here?

Oh God, he’s here.

Another song starts. Wilder’s voice pushes into my ears over the intro. “Open the door, Fairy!”

The nickname is what propels me into motion—what breaks chains and locks and releases what I’ve been trying to forget. I stalk to the front door, unlock the deadbolt, and yank it open. Wilder’s head whips up, relief etched on his features.

I look around pointedly. “Sorry, no Fairy here. Justsome girl.”

He catches his lower lip in his teeth, wincing. “I panicked. Can I come in?”

It’s ridiculously hard to ignore the puppy eyes he’s giving me, but I manage to scoff. “Absolutely not. What happened in the bathroom was a mistake. Momentary insanity. Go back to your girlfriend. Or, wait—did she dump you? Good for her!”

His lips twist as he smothers a smile. “Kendra and I have an open relationship. She knows I’m here.”

I blink a few times, hoping the words will become less presumptuous. Nope. They don’t.

“You think I’m going to sleep with you?” My voice rises with every syllable. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t even like you!”

He steps closer, hands lifting to grab the top of the doorframe. Ducking his head, he pins me with a heated stare. “You may not like me anymore, Evangeline, but you still want me. You told me not to stop.”

I used to love that he was one of the few people who called me by my full name. Now it feels aberrant. An unwanted intimacy.

Wilder’s gaze travels down my body, lingering on my braless breasts. I cross my arms over my white T-shirt.

“It’s cold out,” I snap.

Leaning toward me even further, he murmurs darkly, “Don’t lie to me.” He licks his lips, a quick flick of his tongue that echoes as a pulse between my thighs. “We’ve been dancing around this for years. There’s no pact anymore. Let’s get it out of our systems. Tomorrow we can go back to strangers.”

“Get fucked,” I snarl.

His brows twitch up. “Trying to, actually.”

With a growl, I swing the door closed. His boot catches the wood, then he’s pushing into my house. He slams the door behind him, locks it, and faces me. My heart gallops, my darting gaze capturing him in ecstatic bursts like furious notes on a piano. Flushed cheekbones. Heaving chest. Twitching fingers. Eyes full of naked longing.

He’s a siren song of chaos and desire, so beautiful my conviction disperses like sea foam. I’m swept away.

“Evangeline,” he whispers.

We reach for each other at the same time. It happens fast but feels like slow motion. I’m waiting forever—I’ve waited forever—for his hands on my waist. They clench and lift me, slamming our chests together. My legs wind around his hips, my arms locking around his neck. Planting one hand on my ass, he sinks the other into my hair. With a sharp tug, he angles my head and brings my mouth to his. So close I can feel the condensation of his breath.

“Kiss me, Fairy.”

It’s a plea. A prayer.

I can’t resist.

His lips are exactly how I remember them from our brief kiss when I was sixteen. Silky soft and warm, firm and full. They part slightly but he doesn’t kiss me back. Doubt surges, but when I start to pull away, the hand in my hair tightens to hold me still.

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