“Don’t ‘Easton’ me,” he says as he turns to face me, eyes alive but posture guarded.
So we stand and stare but don’t speak. My heart is in my throat. My emotions a train wreck inside of me.
I expect him to tell me to leave.
I expect him to shake his head and say no more.
Wouldn’t that be fitting, considering I now want more?
But he does neither. We just stand there as the air around us shifts and changes, reacts and charges. It’s hard to draw in a breath, and yet I know damn well it’s not the air that’s making me feel that way but rather the look in his eye.
Then in the space from one beat to the next, he has me against the wall, his lips on mine, his body pressed against me in the most delicious of ways. Our hands grab and pull and squeeze and feel.
He wages an all-out assault on my senses with his lips alone. There is nothing gentle about the kiss. There is nothing passive. It’s packed full of greed and need and hunger and a violent desire that ignites every nerve inside my body.
I react in kind. My anger at his accusations earlier, my sadness over Ford’s birthday, and the realization of my feelings—they all curl into an explosive ball of harbored energy that gives just as good as it gets.
There are sparks of hunger on his tongue when it brushes against mine. Each connection is like a live wire hitting water—evocative, incendiary, inescapable.
And just when I feel like I can’t catch my breath—when I’m drowning in everything that is Easton Wylder—he tears his mouth from mine, hands fisted in my hair, knee between my thighs, and eyes a burning kaleidoscope of colors.
“Fucking Christ, I’m so mad at you right now.”