Chaotic Obsession

Under Her Skin Cont

fingers neat, no ice—a ritual she'd learned the first week, a

secret language spoken in the clink of glass and the scent of

oak, a small act of intimacy that sent a thrill through her

every time. She slid the glass across the counter, her hand

trembling slightly, anticipation building like a gathering

storm, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped

bird. When his fingers brushed hers, even for that fleeting

fraction of a second, the charge between them was electric,

a jolt that shot straight through her, leaving her breathless,

her skin tingling. She felt it low, deep, dangerous, a forbid-

den current threatening to pull her under, to drown her in a

sea of longing and desire.

He leaned in, closing the distance until she could see

the dark circles under his eyes, the faint stubble on his jaw,

the angry red cut on his knuckle from last night's brawl, a

silent testament to the violence that always seemed to sur-

round him. His nearness made her head spin, the air thick

with the scent of whiskey and leather and something else,

something uniquely him, something that drew her in like a

moth to a flame. "You okay?" he asked, his voice softer now,

laced with a concern that made her heart ache, a tender-

ness that felt both dangerous and intoxicating.

The question hit her hard, a sharp, unexpected blow,

a reminder of the precariousness of her situation, the

constant tightrope walk between desire and danger. "Why

wouldn't I be?" she asked, her voice tight, a defensive wall

rising up around her.

He tilted his head, his eyes sharp and knowing, as

if he could see straight through her carefully constructed

facade, straight to the raw, vulnerable truth beneath. "Be-

cause Layla's about two seconds from trying to set you on

fire with her eyes."

Alli couldn't help it—she laughed, a short, nervous

sound that betrayed her unease, a sound that felt brittle

and false even to her own ears. "I can handle her," she said,

trying to sound braver than she felt, trying to convince her-

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CHAOTIC OBSESSION

self that she wasn't in over her head.

"You're braver than I thought," he murmured, his gaze

intense, a silent challenge, a silent promise, a silent warn-

ing.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and the breath

caught in her throat. It wasn't just his face, handsome and

rugged as ever, but the raw, undisguised hunger burning in

his eyes, the barely leashed desire that mirrored the frantic

yearning clawing inside her. It was terrifying and exhilar-

ating all at once. "No," she whispered, the word a fragile,

breathy confession that hung between them in the smoky

air. "Just better at pretending."

His gaze softened, the hard, cynical edges of his face

momentarily melting away like ice under a warm sun. In

that fleeting second, she saw everything—the regret that

haunted him, the fierce, aching want he tried so hard to

hide, the lonely, desolate places he never let anyone else see.

It was a glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls,

and it made her pulse skitter and jump, a frantic drumbeat

against her ribs.

"You shouldn't look at me like that," she blurted, the

words tumbling out before she could stop them, a desper-

ate, foolish plea born of equal parts fear and longing. Her

fingers tightened around the sweating glass in her hand,

knuckles white.

He smiled, slow and lazy and wolfish, a predatory glint

sparking in his blue eyes. He leaned even closer, invading

her space, his breath warm and intoxicating against her

ear. The scent of whiskey and something uniquely him

filled her senses, making her head spin. "Like what, darlin'?"

he murmured, the drawl in his voice thicker, more pro-

nounced than usual.

"Like you're trying to figure me out," she whispered,

her voice trembling despite her best efforts. Her gaze

flickered down to his mouth, then snapped back up to meet

his burning stare.

35S.J LANE

He held her gaze, his blue eyes burning into hers, hun-

gry and possessive. It was a silent challenge, a dare. "Al-

ready did," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rasp that

vibrated through her.

Her mouth went dry, her heart pounding so hard she

was sure he could hear it. She swallowed hard, trying to re-

gain some semblance of composure. "And what did you fig-

ure out, Johnny?"

He grinned, slow and dangerous, a promise of pleasure

and pain lurking in the corners of his mouth. "That you're

too sweet for this place, darlin'. Too good for me."

She bristled, stung by his words, by the casual dismis-

sal in his tone. "I can handle more than you think," she re-

torted, her chin lifting in defiance. The Southern Belle act,

always a good defense.

He let his eyes drag down her body, slow and shame-

less, taking in every curve and contour. It wasn't a threat,

not exactly—it was worship, memory, promise, all tangled

together in a potent cocktail of desire that made her skin

prickle and her breath hitch. "Yeah," he said, his voice a low

growl that rumbled in his chest. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Alli swallowed, her heart racing, her senses reeling.

She knew exactly what he was afraid of—how wild they

were together—how easily they lost control, how they

couldn't keep their hands off each other when the doors

were locked, the world shut out. The thought sent a shiver

of anticipation down her spine. She yearned to pull him

into the walk-in cooler, the metal door clanging shut be-

hind them, a promise of stolen moments, of breathless

kisses and desperate touches. Mouths would collide in a

desperate, hungry dance of tongues and teeth. Fingers

would fumble with buttons, tear at fabric, a raw, urgent

need to feel him against her skin.

Behind him, Layla pushed herself up from her stool,

muttered something sharp and ugly to one of the regulars,

and stalked out of the bar with the wounded grace of a

36

CHAOTIC OBSESSION

predator, her anger a palpable thing in the humid air, thick

and heavy like the approaching storm. Johnny didn't even

turn to watch her go, his focus absolute, laser-locked on

Alli.

The intensity of his gaze made her head spin, a dizzy-

ing heat threatening to buckle her knees. It felt like he

wanted to lay her bare right there on the scarred wooden

surface of the bar, like he needed her under his hands,

under his mouth, utterly consumed by him. And God, she

wanted it too. Wanted him so badly that her thighs pressed

together, a silent ache remembering the last time—the way

he'd groaned her name like a prayer, the way she'd shat-

tered into a million pieces at his touch. The memory was a

brand, searing her skin, leaving her breathless and desper-

ate for more.

He leaned in, the scent of smoke and something in-

definably him filling her senses, his breath ghosting across

her ear. The mournful twang of the steel guitar seemed to

underscore the intimacy of the moment, a secret language

only they understood in the crowded bar. "That's the thing

about looking put together," he murmured, his voice a low,

gravelly rasp that vibrated against her skin. His eyes, dark

pools in the dim light, held a weight she couldn't quite de-

cipher, a hidden depth that both intrigued and frightened

her. "Nobody ever asks what's broken under the hood."

A shiver traced its way down her spine, prickling her

skin and raising goosebumps on her arms. His words were

a dare, an invitation to reveal the carefully guarded cracks

in her facade. "And what if I want someone to ask?" she

whispered, her voice barely audible above the music, a fra-

gile plea hanging in the air between them.

His gaze intensified, locking onto hers with an inten-

sity that made her breath catch in her throat. Slowly, de-

liberately, his hand snaked across the polished surface of

the bar, finding hers in the dim, hidden space beneath. His

fingers laced through hers, a possessive grip that sent a jolt

37S.J LANE

of electricity shooting up her arm, settling low in her belly.

It was a claim, a silent promise of something dangerous

and thrilling. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles on

her wrist, the pad of his thumb rough against her sensitive

skin, a subtle, sensual caress that made her heart pound in

her chest. "Then you tell me what's broken, darlin'," he mur-

mured, his voice a husky caress, his gaze never leaving hers,

holding her captive in its depths. "And I'll see if I can fix it."

A shaky breath escaped her lips, the air suddenly thick

with unspoken desires and the heavy weight of expect-

ation. Nobody had ever touched her like this, looked at her

like this, wanted her like this—not even in the deepest,

darkest corners of her fantasies. Not the way Johnny did,

with a raw, primal need that mirrored her own. It was as

if he saw past the carefully constructed walls she'd built

around herself, saw the vulnerability beneath, and wanted

to protect it, possess it. Like he needed her more than air,

like she was the only thing keeping him grounded in a

world that threatened to swallow him whole.

The bell over the door jingled, a harsh, jarring intru-

sion that shattered the fragile intimacy that had enveloped

them. A boisterous group of college kids spilled in, their

laughter loud and careless, their energy disrupting the

quiet corner they had carved out for themselves. The spell

was broken, the bubble of their private world burst by the

intrusion of reality. Johnny squeezed her hand once, a si-

lent acknowledgment, a promise of more to come, then re-

luctantly released her, taking a step back into the shadows,

his eyes never breaking contact, a silent conversation pass-

ing between them.

"You don't owe me anything," he said, his voice rough

around the edges, as if the words were being torn from him,

each syllable laced with a pain he couldn't quite conceal.

"But I'm not like her, Alli. I'm not trying to hurt you."

She blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting of

tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. His words

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CHAOTIC OBSESSION

were a balm to her wounded soul, but also a warning, a

reminder of the potential for heartbreak. She gave a small,

hesitant nod, her throat tight with emotion. "Maybe not,"

she managed, her voice trembling slightly despite her best

efforts. "Doesn't mean you won't."

He looked as if he wanted to argue, to deny the truth

in her words, to promise her a future free from pain, then

seemed to think better of it, the fight draining out of him.

He knew her too well, knew the scars she carried, knew the

inherent risk in opening herself up to anyone. He just nod-

ded, slow and resigned, his eyes filled with a dark, know-

ing sadness that mirrored her own. He drifted back down

the bar to his usual stool, melting back into the anonymity

of the crowd, leaving her aching, empty, burning up inside

with a longing that threatened to consume her.

Alli watched him go, her whole body a live wire of

memory, her nerves raw with a desperate, aching desire

that pulsed through her veins. The ghost of his touch

lingered on her skin, a phantom sensation that both tor-

mented and thrilled her. She forced herself to breathe, to

focus on the mundane tasks in front of her, to wipe down

the already spotless bar, to count the bottles she'd already

counted twice. But all she could think about was him—his

hands, the way they felt on her skin, calloused and strong,

yet surprisingly gentle; his mouth, the taste of him, a heady

mix of whiskey and something uniquely his own; the se-

cret bruises he left on her thighs, a silent testament to their

stolen moments; the things he whispered in the dark when

nobody else could hear, promises and confessions shared

in hushed tones, binding them together in a web of secrecy

and desire.

She knew it wasn't over. It wasn't harmless. It was

the kind of wanting that destroyed people, that left them

broken and hollowed out, consumed by a fire they couldn't

control.

But she wanted it anyway. God, she wanted it.

39S.J LANE

God help her, she wanted him anyway.