Page 45 of Redline
But then the image of those girls downstairs flashes through my mind like a true traitor—the way they sized me up, the way Sienna always looks like she’s already claimed a seat at his table. The jealousy is a sudden, hot spike in my chest, and I can’t stop the words before they hit the air.
"Is that the only thing that helps?" I challenge, my eyes flicking to the beer and then back to his eyes. "The beer? Or does the rest of the 'flavor of the week' menu help take the edge off, too?"
One side of his mouth lifts, a tease of a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't know, Shortcut. I thought you were looking for my father for that kind of career advice."
It’s a jab, but it lacks his usual bite. The air between us is thick enough to choke on. I should push him away. I should go back to the pool house and the safety of my notebooks. Instead, I feel a reckless, burning boldness take over.
I rationalize it as curiosity. I tell myself it’s just figuring him out—just another problem I can get ahead of.But as I look at his mouth, all I can think about is the way he tasted before. The memory is a low-frequency hum in my blood that I can’t shut off.
"Maybe I’m tired of the advice," I grumble, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Maybe I just want another taste."
Dominic’s entire body goes rigid. For a second, he doesn't even breathe. His eyes darken, the pupils blowing wide until they’re nearly black, devouring the iris. The uncertainty from before is gone, replaced by something much hungrier.
"Just a taste?" he asks. His voice is all hard edges and danger, barely a breath away from my lips. He doesn't move to close the gap—he waits, forcing me to be the one to cross the line. It’s the ultimate power play, and I’m too far gone to care about winning.
"I still can't stand you," I breathe.
"Good," he growls, his forehead dropping against mine for a split second. The sheer presence of him is staggering. "The feeling is entirely mutual."
"Good. Then we understand each other perfectly—"
Dominic doesn't let me finish. He cuts the words right out of my mouth, his lips crashing into mine with a desperate, heavy force that knocks the remaining air from my lungs. I expected resistance, or perhaps one last parting insult to keep the walls up, but the cord has finally snapped.
It isn't a taste—it's a starvation. The kiss is hard, messy, and tastes of beer and the friction of every argument we’ve had since the day we met.
The next few seconds are a blur of friction and gravity. My back is pinned against the wood of the door, and suddenly his hands are under my thighs, hoisting me up like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, locking him to me as he groans against my mouth—a low, broken sound that vibrates through my entire chest.
Everything is moving too fast and not fast enough. The cool metal of his belt buckle bites into my inner thigh, a sharp contrast to the scorching touch of his skin. My fingers fumble with the button of his fly, my movements frantic and clumsy, fueled by the terrifying realization that I don’t want him to stop—I want him to ruin me.
The noise from the party downstairs might as well be on another planet. There is only the ragged, synchronized rhythm of our breathing and the feel of him pressing past every defense I have left.
He doesn’t waste time with gentleness. There is no soft lead-in, no whispered reassurances. This is a collision. He rucks up the hem of my skirt, his palms rough and impatient against my skin, and the first drive into me is hard enough to make my head snap back against the door. I let out a choked sound—half-gasp, half-protest—my hands fisting in his hair to pull him closer even as my brain screams at me to push him away.
"Stay still," he commands, his voice a rasp against my ear that sends a fresh wave of static down my spine.
He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my skin with enough force to leave bruises that will remind me of this tomorrow. But I don't stay still. I can’t. I fight him for the lead, arching my back, meeting every punishing, relentless thrust with a defiance that only seems to make him more clinical in his intent to breakme. It’s not romantic. It’s a combat of nerves and friction, an equalization of all the tension we’ve been building since the beginning.
I hate that my body is betraying me. I hate the way the rough denim of his jeans and the friction of his movements have my vision blurring into white-hot sparks. Every time he hits his mark, my grip on this—on myself—loosens, and I clamp down harder. He’s driving me to the edge of the cliff, and I’m pulling him over it with me.
The pace becomes frantic, a desperate search for the breaking point. His breath is hot against my neck, his teeth grazing my now too sensitive skin. When the release finally hits, it’s a violent, bone-deep shudder that leaves me clinging to his shoulders, my breath hitching in broken, rhythmic sobs I refuse to let turn into his name.
He lets out a low, guttural snarl, his body tightening into iron as he pulls back at the very last second. I feel the hot, heavy evidence of his undoing hit the floor between us—a reckless, frantic waste of the control he usually prizes so much. He remains there, his forehead braced against mine and his weight still pinning me to the wood, chest heaving as we both struggle to remember how to breathe in an atmosphere that suddenly feels too thin.
The silence that follows is heavy and slick with sweat, broken only by the distant, muted bass line that feels like a reminder of everything outside this room.
Thump-thump-thump.Footsteps.
"Yo, Dom!" Luka’s voice rings out, bright and cheerful. "You in there, or did you finally bore yourself to sleep?"
The sound of his footsteps approaching closer shatters the haze like glass hitting tile.
I scramble for what to do, but Dominic is faster. Before I can even find my feet, his hand is a heavy weight on my shoulder,steering me wordlessly into the narrow space behind the door. He doesn't say a word, his features going still with unsettling calculation. He steps into the gap, his wide shoulders erasing me from the hallway’s line of sight while his other hand blindly fumbles with tucking himself back into his jeans.
He cracks the door just an inch, his weight a barricade against the wood. "What do you want?"
His voice is terrifyingly steady. If I didn't feel the tension still vibrating beneath his skin, I wouldn't believe he’d been touched at all.
"Nice to see you too. Real hospitable," Luka scoffs from the hallway. "Have you seen Carter? I went by the pool house, but she didn't answer."
