Page 33 of Knife Thrower

I hold his stare. I recognize the padlock on his past—it matches the one on mine. We both possess black holes where our childhoods should be.

I nod once and don’t ask another question.

We finish the food in comfortable silence, leaving a few dollar bills on the table for the tip. The boardwalk stretches out from the restaurant, winding down toward the open shoreline, and we follow it without discussing the destination, leaving the glow of the town behind until our boots hit loose sand.

The moon hangs low over the water, a sharp silver crescent carving light across the black waves. The wind whips off the ocean, cold and biting, tangling loose strands of my hair around my neck.

I stop near the tide line. The roar of the surf drowns out the distant noise of highway traffic.

Cole stops beside me, and the space between us vanishes. The heat radiating off his body cuts straight through the coastal chill. He turns, fully facing me, the wind blowing his dark hair into his eyes.

He doesn’t reach out immediately. He watches my face, letting me read his intent.

I don’t step back. My pulse kicks a hard, violent rhythm against my collarbone.

His hand lifts. Long, calloused fingers brush the line of my jaw, tucking a stray blonde hair behind my ear. The touch sends a wild jolt of electricity straight down my spine.

I tilt my head up.

Cole groans, a harsh, guttural sound, and brings his mouth down on mine.

The kiss starts exactly where the Big Top left off. Relentless. Consuming. His lips part mine, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting of dark beer and salt air. I grip the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer, my body seeking the solid, heavy friction of his chest against mine.

He wraps an arm around my waist, lifting me flush against him. His other hand slides into my hair, his fingers gripping the back of my skull, holding me in place while he devours my mouth. The kiss turns frantic. The chaotic energy that surrounds him thrums through my veins.

I want it. I want the fire.

He walks me backward. My boots drag through the sand. The surf crashes louder behind me.

We drop to our knees.

Cole follows me down, his weight pressing me back into the cold sand. The solid, unyielding line of his body traps my legs. His chest hovers over mine, heavy and broad, blocking out the moonlight.

The scent of saltwater disappears.

Cedar. Cigarette smoke. A shadow stretching across my bedroom ceiling. A heavy male body pinning me down, sealing the exits, eliminating every possible route of escape.

My lungs lock. The oxygen cuts off in my throat, and the panic strikes like a physical blow, a sudden, blinding terror freezing the blood in my veins. My muscles turn to iron. I flatten my palms against his chest, my elbows locking out, turning my arms into rigid steel bars between our bodies.

I don’t scream. I never screamed. I just turn into a statue.

Cole freezes instantly.

He doesn’t push against my hands. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong in a soft, pitying voice. He doesn’t demand an explanation. He reads the absolute terror vibrating through my body.

His hands drop to my hips, and in one smooth motion, he rolls his weight to the side, taking me with him. The world spins in a dizzying blur of dark sky and pale sand.

Gravity shifts. My back leaves the ground.

I straddle his hips, and he lies flat on the beach, staring up at me, surrendering the physical advantage. The air rushes back into my lungs in a ragged, tearing gasp.

“Better?” he asks, his voice low, scraping over the sound of the ocean.

I nod, my chest heaving. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping it like a lifeline. I drag air through my teeth, waiting for the flight instinct to subside.

He watches my face, his dark eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of my shoulders. He doesn’t reach for me, keeping his hands flat on the sand beside his head.

“You don’t like being pinned,” he observes. A statement, not a question.