Page 94 of Top Shelf

His words settle over me like a weighted blanket. I don’t have an answer. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’ve ever known what I’ve wanted. I was so focused on getting out from beneath my parents’ thumb, away from their limelight, that I never stopped to ask myself where I was going, whatIwanted.

“Now tell me,” he says, voice dipping as he leans closer, his lips coming to my ear. “Were you dreaming about us? Is that what put that blush on your cheeks?”

He pulls back just enough to catch my eye, and without mehaving to say a single word, heknows. His pupils dilate, and his breath catches slightly as his gaze drops to my lips.

“Fuck, I wish I could have been in that dream with you.”

“Oh, you were.”

His lips part in surprise, and I’m about to lean in and cover them with mine, dying to know if he kisses anything like he did in that dream last night when Lucian honks the horn.

Both of us jump.

“Cockblock,” Ronan grumbles, making me laugh. With a hitch of his lips and roll of his eyes, he gestures toward the car. “Come on, Warrior Girl. You’re making us late.”

I climb into the backseat and settle beside Silas. He gives me a soft, quiet smile before passing me the travel mug he’d been holding. One sniff tells me it’s exactly how I like it. Warmth curls low in my chest, subtle but steady as I mouth a gratefulthank you.It’s such a small thing, and yet it sinks deep, knowing that he thought of me. That he went out of his way. That hecared.

Up front, Ronan slides into the driver’s seat while Lucian adjusts the passenger seat into its upright position. Then he twists around, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. His eyes find me instantly, his gaze dragging over me, slow and deliberate. However, there is more than mere concern in his stare. There’s heat. Possession. A silent, ruthless kind of promise. And when his gaze finally collides with mine…it slams into me like a live wire.You’re mine, it says.

“Looking hot as hell today, Miss Winslow,” he practically purrs, and all of a sudden, I feel him moving inside me, his lips hot against mine, Silas at my back, and Ronan’s intense stare watching us.

My pulse pounds against my throat, and my breath comes out quick and uneven. His words draw the attention of Ronan and Silas, and with three sets of eyes on me, that ache I’d onlymanaged to dull a little, ramps back up until I can feel my clit pulsing with need.

Need that I can’t currently satisfy.

Lucian finally turns back around as Ronan pulls away from the curb, casting me a knowing glance in the rearview mirror, but the burn left behind lingers.

Silas reaches across the seat between us once more, but this time it isn’t to pass me a coffee. His hand lands possessively on my thigh, his fingers stroking back and forth across the soft inner skin there.

My thighs clench, and I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my spine.

God, today is going to be a long, torturous day.

The library is quiet in the way only late evenings ever are. The overhead lights hum faintly, casting pale pools across long wooden tables that are mostly empty.

Silas and I sit shoulder-to-shoulder, our knees brushing beneath the table as we work individually through our assignments. His phone buzzes on the table, and he finishes what he was typing before checking it.

Whatever he sees there makes his mouth twitch. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close.

He turns the screen toward me.

Ronan

You two done yet? Dinner’s happening. Bring Wren.

I blink at the message, then turn to Silas. “You don’t need to feed me; I have food at my place.”

He lifts a brow, pulling the notebook he’s been using to communicate any time we chatted toward him. He quickly writes something, then slides it toward me.

I’ve seen the bland salads and green juices you bring for lunch. If you can convince me you have something substantial to eat in your fridge, then you can go home. If that’s what you want. But for the record, we want you at ours.

I huff. “That’s not?—”

The look he gives me cuts me off. I don’t have a sufficient argument because he’s right. My fridge is full of rabbit food that my mother keeps getting delivered to the apartment and believes is all I should need to sustain myself. For the record, it’s not. I’m constantly starving, using my earnings from the bar to buy edible food when I can because I know she’s tracking my bank cards like the overbearing psycho that she is.

He pulls the notebook back toward himself before he starts writing again. Underlining it to make his point. It’s not up for discussion.

You’re coming to ours.