Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“Don’t you move,” I hiss.
The wind laughs. The float tilts harder. I wobble, fingers slipping. The world tilts with me. My heart lurches into my throat as my foot catches on a coil of lights and I pitch forward, arms flailing—then suddenly I’m not falling.
A strong arm slams around my waist. A hand clutches the back of my coat. My body is yanked backward into a wall of heat and muscle.
Ash.
His chest hits my back, solid as a brick furnace. His arm locks around me like a steel band, hauling me against him.
For a split second, I’m weightless. For a split second, I’m airborne. Then he catches me fully, grounding me, pulling me tight—too tight—like he’s scared of something.
“Jesus Christ, Sparky,” he growls into my ear, breath hot against my cheek, “are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
I’m shaking, from fear, from adrenaline. From him.
“Ash,” I whisper, breathless.
He doesn’t let go. His hand is splayed across my stomach, fingers gripping the fabric of my jacket like he’s physically preventing me from disappearing.
“Why,” he says, every word thick, rough, vibrating through his chest, “are you on a goddamn float in this wind?”
“I—I was fixing the decorations—”
“You were about to go flying into the next county.”
My mouth opens, then closes again. He finally exhales, the sound sharp and uneven, like he’s been holding his breath for twenty minutes.
He turns me around so I’m facing him, hands still on my hips, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the hem of my coat. His eyes are storm-dark, jaw tight, the tendons in his neck flexing.
“You good?” he asks.
The concern is real. So is the anger. So is the heat. All of it aimed directly at me.
I nod, but it’s weak. My voice barely makes it out. “I—yeah. I’m okay. Thanks to you.”
His fingers flex at my waist. It’s a small movement. Tiny. But it ignites something low in my stomach.
“Sparky,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to my lips. “You’ve gotta stop making me chase after you like this.”
“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice drops another octave. “You scare the hell out of me.”
And I should say something normal. Rational. Appropriate.
But all I can hear is the rasp in his voice.
All I can feel is the heat of his hands.
All I can think about is the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the fire. Not the float. Not the hazard. Me.
My breathing stutters. “I didn’t know it was that windy.”
“It’s always that windy.” His thumb strokes a slow arc at my hip. The touch is barely there, but enough to unravel me. “And you climbed up anyway.”
“I needed to fix it.”
“You needed to wait for help.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
His jaw ticks. “I’m everywhere you are.”
The words land like a strike of lightning. My knees wobble. His grip tightens.
There’s a beat—long, heavy—where neither of us moves or speaks. The world fades out. The wind still howls. Decorations flap. But it’s all distant, muffled, unimportant.
Ash is here.
Ash is holding me.
Ash is looking at me like he’s seconds away from ruining us in the best possible way.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of us does. But suddenly his face is closer. His breath mixes with mine. His eyes flick to my mouth again, slower this time, deliberate. My pulse thunders in my ears.
“Ash,” I whisper, but it’s barely sound.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pulling me flush to him. My chest hits his. My breath catches. His other hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my lips.
The world narrows into a single point: his touch. His breath. His mouth, inches from mine.
“Lucy,” he murmurs, voice shredded, “what are you doing to me?”
I don’t answer because I can’t.
Because all I want—all I feel—is the gravity pulling me forward. The ache. The heat. The electric stretch of air between our lips. His eyes flicker closed for one second.
One. Agonizing. Second.
Then he opens them and the restraint there almost breaks me.
I whisper, barely audible, “I trust you.”
The words leave me before I can stop them. Honest. Too honest.
His hand on my jaw freezes. He looks like the ground just shifted beneath him. Like he’s not sure whether to pull me closer or run from the weight of what I just said. Then his thumb strokes my cheek, slow as a heartbeat.
“Don’t say things like that,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Not when I want you this badly.”
My knees give out. He holds me tighter, like he expected it. His forehead drops to mine. We’re breathing the same air now. Sharing the same heat. Standing on the same dangerous line.
His nose brushes mine. His lips hover. That’s it. That’s all it would take. A millimeter. A breath. A choice. I feel his breath shake. His fingers dig into my hip. He’s losing it. He’s losing it and I want him to.