NOLA
The kitchen light is a harsh, clinical white against the dark wood of the cabinets, and as Rhett stares at me, I can see the pulse jumping in his neck, a rhythmic thud that matches the frantic beat of my own heart. I'm still sitting on the counter, my legs tangled with his, and the way he’s looking at me isn't just about desire anymore, it’s something darker, something territorial that makes me feel like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored to the floor.
"You should be scared of me, Nola," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that register that vibrates right through my chest, his thumb tracing the curve of my bottom lip until I have to bite back a moan, "You should be running in the other direction instead of asking me to ruin you."
"Maybe I like the ruin," I whisper, leaning in
