Page 70 of Revv

The second our eyes meet, his mouth curves.

Not a huge smile, but that slow, knowing little grin that says he remembers everything.

My thighs tighten before I can stop them.

Cabrón.

I look away and bring in the next track, but I can still feel his attention. It sits against my skin like another set of lights, warm and impossible to ignore.

Fuck, he knows what he’s doing.

He has known exactly what he’s doing since he dragged me against him that night I kissed him and every sensible thought in my head seemed to disappear.

Today shouldn’t have happened. I followed him to yell at him.

That was the plan.

And you know what, it was a very good, and reasonable plan.

I was going to make it clear that nearly dying for a race win was not attractive, no matter how hot he looked crossing the finish line.

Then I slapped him, he grabbed my wrists, I saw the way he looked at me, and somewhere between calling him a pendejo and telling him I was scared, my plan slipped, fell down a flight of stairs, and died.

Now I can’t forget the ache he left between my legs.

Ay, coño.

I almost miss the cue for the next transition, but recover fast, cutting the vocal at the right second and letting the percussion breathe before I slam the beat back in. The entire floor jumps with it, hands going up as the bass hits hard enough to shake the booth.

A rush moves through me.

There.

That is mine.

The crowd yelling, the lights flashing, the whole room moving because I told it to. I built this set from nothing, spent hours tearing it apart, and put it back together until every drop hit exactly where I wanted.

Revel lifts his bottle toward me in a silent toast.

I raise my middle finger without missing the next cue and his grin gets bigger.

Bexley catches the exchange and looks between us.

I immediately drop my hand.

Shit.

She narrows her eyes at me, then turns toward Revel. He says something to her, probably a lie, because she laughs and shoves his shoulder before going back to dancing.

My stomach tightens.

Nobody knows, and nobody can know.

It’s not like I’m embarrassed or anything. I am a grown ass woman and I am allowed to make terrible choices with beautiful men whenever I want.

That is feminism.

The problem is this crew has no concept of privacy. They would turn one hookup into a full investigation, complete with timelines, witness statements, and screenshots from the group chat, and I’m not ready for all that.