Page 70 of Creeping Lily
I cup her face in both hands, my thumbs stroking her cheeks. She’s soft, impossibly soft, and I’m a man made of jagged edges. She’s the only gentle thing I’ll ever touch. And I’ll guard her with every violent bone in my body.
“So fucking beautiful,” I murmur, my lips brushing her ear. I blow across her skin, feel her arch toward me, greedy for more.
“Please,” she breathes.
“Please what, Lily?”
“I can’t…” Her voice fractures, the rest lost.
She doesn’t need to finish. The way she squeezes her thighs together tells me everything. My girl is hungry. And she’s begging to be fucked.
35
LILY
The scent of leather and oud embraces me like a long-lost lover. It seeps into my lungs, thick and intoxicating, and for a heartbeat, I forget to breathe.
His hand slides up my side, slow at first, then harder—fingers digging into my waist until my skin throbs beneath his grip. My breath stutters. I can’t stop my eyes from tracking the way his hands roam, crossing and recrossing my body like he’s mapping out territory that’s already his.
The edge of his bottom lip is trapped between his teeth as he works, deliberate and unhurried, savoring every second. Ink winds over his hands—fresh, darker than before, curling into new designs that snake from his wrists toward his knuckles. I try to follow the shapes, to make sense of them, but he moves too much, gives me no chance to piece them together. Still, heat prickles across my skin, shame curling in my gut for noticing the beauty in his marks.
“Eyes, Lily,” he rasps. “Give me your eyes.”
His voice is gravel over silk, and it burrows under my skin.
I feel his fingers on my chin, firm but not cruel, tipping myhead until my gaze collides with his. We stay there—locked—eyes speaking in a language more dangerous than words.
One hand drifts into my hair, combing through strands like he’s memorizing the texture. Then he leans in. His lips brush mine, warm through the cutout of his mask. It’s soft at first, almost careful, his tongue teasing the seam of my mouth until I let him in.
I want to move closer. To wrap myself around him and disappear inside whatever dark place he’s dragged me to. But my hands are bound, my wrists useless at my back, and the only skin-to-skin contact I get is what he decides to give.
When his hand moves lower, between my thighs over my jeans, my muscles lock. He freezes too, watching me. Asking without asking.
One blink. That’s all I give him. Permission.
Our language doesn’t need sentences. It doesn’t need a voice. It’s touch and heat and the way air shifts between us.
I didn’t know him before Colt. He was just a stranger—until Bethany’s birthday, until the night the club swallowed me whole in its flashing lights and pounding bass. He appeared from nowhere, a shadow in the chaos, his presence a magnet that both drew me in and made my skin crawl.
Since then, he’s been everywhere. In hallways. Across the quad. At parties he’s not invited to. Always close enough for me to feel him, never close enough for anyone else to notice. He moves like he belongs here, like the campus was built with him in mind. But he’s a ghost—no one calls his name, no one pulls him into a conversation. Because no-one in my circle sees him but me.
I’ve never asked questions. Maybe because I’m afraid of the answers. Maybe because some part of me doesn’t want the mystery to end. Could he be someone I already know? Someonehiding in plain sight? The thought sinks its teeth into me and doesn’t let go.
Weeks have stretched into months, his presence sharpening like the edge of a knife pressed just close enough to threaten. Every time our eyes meet, something passes between us—an unspoken dare.
Fear and attraction twist together until I can’t tell one from the other.
“Do I want to know what you’re thinking, Lily?” His voice is low, rich, curling around my name like smoke. “Should I be worried?”
I shake my head because words feel too fragile. Electricity hums between us, a live wire under my skin. I want my hands back. I need them. I want to thread my fingers into his hair, feel the shape of his skull, trace the lines of muscle under his shirt.
Khaki Henley. Worn jeans that hang low on his hips. A body carved for sin.
Danger.That’s what he is.
And yet?—
I rip the thought from my head before it can root itself. I can’t pretend I’m special to him. For all I know, I’m just another girl in a long, silent line.
