Page 38 of Broken Pieces
“No.” The word rips out too quick, too defensive.
He arches a brow, smirk sharpening, the swagger rolling off him in waves.
“You jealous, Sweetheart?”
I bite back before I can stop myself.
“The day I get jealous over you is the day I throw every shred of self-respect I’ve got straight in the gutter.”
“Sure you’re not.” His voice dips low, certain he has already won.
I turn toward him fully, anger burning hotter than I can contain. “She’s not your type.”
The regret is instant.
I don’t hand people pieces of me or let anyone crawl under my skin. But Zane… he doesn’t even have to fucking try.
He tilts his head, eyes dragging over me slowly, every second stretched just to make me squirm.
“Then what is my type, Sky?”
“Someone who doesn’t know better,” I snap.
“So that makes you what? Smarter than the rest of them?”
“Smarter. Meaner. Harder to impress.” My chin lifts, daring him to argue.
He leans closer, bad boy swagger dripping from every word. “Harder to impress? Sweetheart, you’ve been staring at me for five minutes straight.”
“Only because somebody has to keep track of all the bullshit coming out of your mouth.”
His chuckle rumbles. “Careful. Keep talking and I might start thinking you actually enjoy this.”
“Keep dreaming,” I bite out, though the heat forming in my chest betrays me.
And he knows it. He always fucking knows it.
“Sharp words, Sky. Makes me wonder how your mouth would feel doing something else.”
“Try that line on someone desperate enough to fall for it.” I turn my head away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my face.
I fix my eyes on the birds cutting through the sky, wings sharp against the fading light. Still, his stare burns into me.
The silence stretches, and then he moves, slowly.
His hand lifts, fingers brushing along my jaw, light and careful, too gentle for who he is.
My body jolts at the contact, and before I can stop myself, I turn my head toward him, nerves sparking, but I don’t push him away. I can’t.
And when I don’t, his mouth crashes against mine.
It isn’t soft or careful.
It is wildfire pressed to my mouth, raw heat flooding straight into my chest, tearing through every wall I thought would keep me safe. His lips are hungry, edged in danger, the kind that carries warning and promise in the same breath.
I shove at his chest, my hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, meaning to break the moment, meaning to stop it.
But my body betrays me.
