Page 112 of The Midnight Frequency

Silas

I was, by my very nature, an apex predator. It was ingrained in me to chase.

That said, I had long since believed that my desire to go after what I wanted had been buried, along with the majority of my bloodlust.

Until her.

Until Maggie.

Until this tightening sensation in my gut that tugged each time she turned away from me. Everything in me screamed at me to run, chase, follow, catch, claim.

It was base, and everything logical in me rebelled against it.

The problem? It only seemed to be growing stronger each time we got close. It ramped up after making out in the studio. Then it became the dominant thought in my mind when she’d fallen apart for me in my home. It was impossible to think beyond after going down on her in the storage room.

Did I go behind her back and have Mr. Lane cancel the actual driver he’d hired to drive her to Los Angeles? I did. I also removed my vehicle from the storage facility, had it serviced, and planned not only the roads we would take but the hotel rooms we’d be staying in. Namely, adjoining ones.

Some part of me felt guilty about not being honest with her about it. Especially after she’d been so careful to avoid me.

But the more I tried to fight the urge to be near her, the harder it became to do anything else.

I figured if I just gave in to my instincts for a few days, I would get my fill of Maggie, then finally—finally—be able to move on from this instinctual infatuation.

That was all it was.

All it could possibly be.

Some long-buried vampire drive that I’d activated by tasting just a single drop of her blood.

Did that make sense if I studied it longer than a moment or two? Absolutely not. So I didn’t.

As we drove, that tugging sensation settled. Everything… settled. I wasn’t sure the last time I’d felt quite so comfortable before.

Then, when she read her book and some of the feelings the main characters were experiencing started to feel a bit too familiar, I went ahead and tuned out the story and focused on Maggie’s sweet voice instead.

Until, suddenly, she sighed hard.

Until she got to the sex scene.

Then I locked right back in.

Her voice went smaller, less sure, as she read about the heroine being changed out of her wedding gown and into her slip. Then, as the hero came into the room and began to strip before the inexperienced heroine’s eyes.

There was no mistaking the way Maggie’s voice went breathy as she kept reading, no way not to notice the blush that crept across her cheeks and down her neck. Her breath went fast and shallow. I could hear the way her pulse pounded harder with each line read.

My own desire was maddeningly distracting, a pressure, an ache that grew stronger with each passing moment. The friction of my fly against my length was enough to nearly undo me.

Finally, as the characters were without any clothes, I couldn’t focus on the road any longer.

I pulled off into a parking alcove likely meant for fishermen, but it was nearing sunset, and there wasn’t another soul to be seen.

Maggie, focused on the page, likely too overwhelmed with her own growing desire, didn’t seem to notice when the car stopped moving. Or when I slid my seat as far back as it would go.

But as the characters reached an apex, Maggie’s voice became even more airy; she absolutely noticed it when I plucked the book out of her hand and tossed it onto the dashboard.

When I reached for her, she didn’t question it, didn’t even pretend she didn’t understand.

She climbed over the center console and slid to straddle me, holding herself just off my lap.