Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
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Staying at Chris's place was a mistake—a colossal, heart-wrenching, inevitable mistake. Deep down, I knew it from the start. I knew that living under the same roof as him, with all the history, tension, and unresolved feelings between us, would lead here. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to push him away, tell him that the pain he caused made this impossible, but standing here, his lips crushing against mine, all that resolve crumbles like sand.
I should've gone back to my own place, risks and threats be damned. Anything would be easier than feeling this raw ache in my chest, this maddening pull that only he seems to bring out. The second his mouth claimed mine, I knew I was done for. It didn't matter what he'd done, what lies he told—because here, in this moment, I can't make myself let go.
His kiss deepens, his tongue grazing mine, a groan slipping from my lips before I can stop it. I hate myself for it, for letting him in again, for the way my hands push at his chest but not nearly hard enough to make him stop. My body betrays me, aching for his touch even as my mind screams for me to run.
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him as he spins us, pressing me back against the wall. The force knocks something off a nearby table, crashing to the floor, but I barely register the sound. All I can focus on is the warmth of his body against mine, the scent I've missed far more than I'd ever admit. It's maddening, intoxicating, and no matter how much I tell myself I should hate him for everything he's done, the truth is undeniable.
I don't hate him.
I can't.
And as his lips devour mine, I know I'm falling all over again, caught in a battle I'm destined to lose.
My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging at the roots, pulling him impossibly closer. Every pent-up feeling, every ounce of anger and longing, spills over in each frantic touch. Chris presses his body against mine, his heat searing through my clothes. My hands travel down his neck, mapping every familiar line, his broad shoulders, his strong back. I trace the contours of his muscles, feeling his warmth beneath my fingertips as I reach the hem of his shirt and untuck it from his pants with an urgent tug.
He groans as I free his shirt, and his hands slide down my sides, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake, finally gripping my hips, my thighs, and then my ass with a rough possessiveness that sends a shiver up my spine. His fingers dig in, and I can't help the way my body presses against him, needing more, everything.
We're all hands, gripping, clawing, pulling, desperate to strip away every barrier between us. Every tug and grasp is both a release and a plea, as if by pulling off each layer, we're somehow peeling away all the things we've left unsaid. His lips trail down my jaw, and I lose myself, my hands slipping under his shirt, fingers skating over his bare skin, feeling every muscle tense under my touch.
With every piece of fabric we shed it feels like dropping armor, leaving us raw, exposed, teetering on the edge of something we can't control—and neither of us has the will to stop.
