Page 33 of The Viper
He kissed me again, hard enough to steal the air from my lungs, and for a moment I forgot everything else—who I was, where we were, what this could cost. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was real, alive, and looking at me like I was the only thing in the damn universe.
He carried me toward the hallway, every step purposeful, controlled. When my back hit the bedroom door, I reached for the handle, fumbled, and laughed breathlessly. “Open it, soldier.”
He raised a brow, amused. “You think I’m military?”
I bit his lip lightly. “Am I wrong?”
His answering smile was wicked. “Not exactly.”
That cryptic little answer sent a pulse of curiosity straight through me, but then he pushed the door open and I stopped thinking altogether.
The bedroom was half-shadow, half-moonlight—curtains swaying, sheets turned down, air thick with humidity and something new. Anticipation, maybe.
He set me down, and I was already reaching for his belt. “Tell me if this is a bad idea.”
“It’s definitely a bad idea,” he said, voice low. “Doesn’t mean I’m stopping.”
“Good,” I whispered, and pulled him back down to me.
The kiss deepened, messy and real, all breath and need and skin. His shirt came off, and I actually gasped—every inch of him sculpted, sharp, cut by light and shadow. Sweat gleamed faintly across his shoulders, down the lines of his abdomen, catching the faint blue glow from outside.
“Jesus,” I murmured, tracing a hand over his chest. “Did you grow those in a lab?”
He laughed quietly, the sound low and rich. “Disappointed?”
“Opposite,” I said. “Very opposite.”
He caught my chin, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You talk too much.”
“Then do something about it.”
He did.
The world narrowed to the slide of his mouth against mine, the weight of his body, the sound of fabric hitting the floor. His jeans joined the pile, and then there was nothing but heat and skin and the steady rhythm of our breathing.
When he pushed me back onto the bed, I went willingly, pulling him down with me. The sheet tangled around us, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his back, the flex of muscle beneath my palms. He kissed me like it was both a promise and a threat—slow enough to torture, deep enough to ruin.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my neck.
“Don’t you dare.”
His hand slid down my thigh, over the curve of my hip, and I arched up into him, desperate for more. The edge of control between us was razor-thin, both of us dancing on it, both of us pretending it wouldn’t cut.
Then—
A sound.
The unmistakable click of the front door.
Lucas froze.
“What the—” I started, but he was already up, moving silent and quick as a shadow, grabbing his clothes.
The door creaked. Footsteps. Familiar.
“Shit.” My heart jumped into my throat. “That’s Hannah.”
His head snapped toward me. “You said she was?—”
