Page 43 of First Verse

A wave of shock ripples down my body, followed by a surge of crackling heat as Wilder steps into view. He leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze steady on Cory.

Six weeks of forcibly compartmentalizing our night together peel away one by one. My eyes drink in the dark hair held to his cheek by the side of his sweatshirt’s hood. Full lips currently compressed. Sharp, unshaven jaw. Lowered brows. Eyes like shadowed emeralds against black lashes, the golden skin beneath them smudged by stress or sleeplessness.

I want to touch him so badly I can’t breathe.

Lily’s hand clamps hard on my shoulder. I suck air into my oxygen-starved lungs.

“I should have known you’d be lurking around here, Ashburn,” Cory says with a boisterous laugh. He stands and shakes Wilder’s hand. “You don’t have to worry. You know I’ll do right by Eva.”

Wilder nods. “Good.” His eyes flash to me for an instant. “Great show tonight.”

He slips back into the hallway.

I’m on my feet before I process moving. “I’ll, uh, be right back.”

Ignoring the surprise from Cory and panic from Lily, I race into the hallway right as Wilder turns a corner.

“Wait!”

He jerks to a stop but doesn’t turn as I catch up to him. I stare at his back, every part of me buzzing. My skin, blood, and bones.

Words slip past the knotted mess of my thoughts. “I thought I felt you.”

He shifts, giving me his profile. “Felt me?” he asks softly.

My stomach spirals downward. “In the audience. You know, the infamous Wilder-Eva radar?”

His head bows, then lifts as he turns to face me. Soft, sad eyes fix on mine. “I shouldn’t have come back here.”

Feeling like a passenger in my own body, I take a step toward him. “Why did you?”

His chest expands on a swift inhale. “The guys are here, too. They’re helping Rye pack your gear. I saw Cory walk back and wanted to make sure—” He shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder. “I should?—”

“Wilder.” I take another step toward him, frowning as he stiffens.

My mind is quite static now.

This isn’t the man who pounded on my door and gave me the best sex of my life. But I remember this version of him, one I haven’t seen in years.

Uncertain, vibrating, awkward.

I grab his hand, wrapping my warm fingers around his cold ones. “Hey. It’s me.”

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his fingers spasming in mine. “I want to be wherever you are. I don’t know how to let go. Tell me to leave you alone.”

My lips part and the truth ejects. “I can’t.”

His eyes find mine. For endless seconds, we stare at each other.

Then he says, “Fuck it,” and yanks me forward.

Our mouths collide and I open for him instantly, a starving flower finally feeling the sun. The low, rough noise he makes tells me he feels this, too. How our mingled taste fills up parts of us that are otherwise empty.

I forget where I am.

Who I am.

Until Lily says loudly, “Ahem!”

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