Page 36 of Ricochet
When he finally peers up, there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Are you obsessed with me, Hayes?”
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I don’t answer.
How can I?
How can I say no when the evidence is right there in his hands?
But how can I answer with the truth when the truth is yes?
I don’t know exactly when or how it happened. One second I’m staring into his eyes while he’s guiding me through a fucking panic attack, and the next, I can’t get him out of my head.
Drawing death over and over again comes as naturally as breathing, but sketching Stone makes me feel alive.
“Does this mean I’m your muse?” he asks when I haven’t said a word.
“Drop it.”
He closes the book and drops it on the bench. But he still refuses to drop the conversation.
“You like my eyes, Callum? You like me in my sweater? Should I put it back on and pose for you?”
He takes one step forward, then another. He’s still in his base layer, black compression leggings and a long-sleeve shirt. Both are skin-tight, clinging to his muscular thighs and biceps. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with nothing but a towel around my waist. The hot, angry flushing in my face has flooded down my neck to my chest, brushing it red as it continues to heave with each breath.
The closer he gets, the more erratic my breathing becomes.
“Stop it, Stone,” I say, finally forcing my feet to take a step back as he continues to approach. “Just fucking let it go.”
“I will when you answer my question.” He keeps coming, and I keep moving backward. “Are you obsessed with me?”
It’s instinct to run away from him, the primal sense of prey to flee from that look in their predator’s eyes—the one that says they want to eat you alive. However, buried beneath that is a voice that tells me to stop trying to escape, that Iwantto be caught.
It doesn’t matter that it’s barely loud enough to hear because the choice is taken away from me when my back hits the wall.
“Do you want to know a secret?” Stone completes his advance, standing less than a foot in front of me. He leans forward slowly. His lips are two inches from mine. Then he turns his face, leaning just a bit more until his low, deep words sweep along the shell of my ear. “I’m obsessed with you too.”
It happens again.
Whether it’s because of his words or the proximity of his body to mine, I can’t be sure.
A white heat arcs through my spine, settling low. Intensifying. It’s a million butterflies on fire, blood traveling on wings. Down, down, down.
The moment he pulls back and our gazes lock, I know one thing for sure now.
I like it when his eyes are on me.
Only me.
But this other thing I’m feeling…
This confusing, burning ball ofwant.
It weighs down my gut, but it’s drowned out by everything else in my head. That prey instinct I’ve carried around with me for most of my life still tells me I don’t want this. Don’t want to want it. Don’t want to feel it. That it’s all a lie. That I’dneverwant it.
I try to shake my head, but it feels too heavy. “I’m not obsessed with you.”