Page 12 of Gilded Shackles
"You look like trouble in a pretty package."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
He laughs, low and dark, and pushes the door open.
The room is ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows, everything in crisp whites and deep blues, with a king-sized bed that dominates the space like it has its own gravitational pull.
Nik shuts the door behind me. I turn. He's watching me again with that unreadable expression that makes my stomach flip.
"Want a drink?" he asks, walking toward the minibar.
I shake my head. "No."
I'm buzzed enough from the club. More than that, I want to feel every second of this. My first real rebellion. Clear. Unfiltered. Mine.
"I want this clear," I say.
He freezes mid-reach. His hand hovers over the minibar like he's deciding whether to pour a whiskey or devour me instead.
"Clear, huh?" He repeats it quietly, almost to himself.
I nod.
He nods back. The faintest approval.
"Good." The corner of his mouth curves. "I like clear."
Then he's moving toward me, and oh God, this isn't my imagination. This is actually happening.
My hands start to shake. My knees threaten to buckle from all the ways this could go wrong, but my body is out herewaving pom-poms. My pulse tap-dances under my skin, and there's a buzzing in my ears that's probably pure electricity.
He stops right in front of me. The distance between us disappears in a blink. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip, and the touch is so deliberate, so unhurried, that it makes me dizzy.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, head tilting to one side.
"That if you don't kiss me in the next five seconds, I might actually lose my mind."
So much for cool and mysterious. Might as well give him my Social Security number while we're playing honest.
His eyes darken. "Can't have that."
His chin dips. I close my eyes. And when his mouth finds mine, holy hell, it's not like the movies at all.
It's better. Hotter. Wetter.
He kisses like he's in command of things I didn't know could be commanded. He takes my breath and gives it back different. He's not gentle, not slow, but everything I didn't know I needed.
His hands slide up my back. One tangles in my carefully pinned hair, destroying every minute I spent on it, and I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. Hairpins scatter across the floor like little white flags of surrender and my hair tumbles down my back in loose waves.
"Christ," he mutters against my mouth, fingers threading through the strands. "Like fucking silk."
I part my lips and he slides right in. My knees just... stop being useful.
He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. The jolt knocks a gasp out of me and he catches it with his mouth, kissing me deeper, harder, until I'm clinging to his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping me vertical. Because they are.
His tongue sweeps against mine and I whimper. Actually whimper. He cages me against the wall, his body deliciously heavy over mine, and something about the weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer overwhelming realness of him, makes my eyes sting.
I've imagined my first kiss a thousand times. Soft, careful, choreographed. This is none of those things. This is heat and sound and breath, his stubble scraping my chin, his hand knotted in my hair. He pulls back just enough to look at me, and I can see it in his eyes. He's waiting. Checking. Making sure I haven't changed my mind.
