The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

He nodded, and we lingered a moment in each other’s nearness. I thought he was going to kiss me. I was desperate for him to kiss me. But his gaze darted to the entrance, then back to me, as if daring himself to break his own promise.

He released my hand. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay. Great.”

I shouldered my bag as he got back to work, and I left quickly, my heart pounding louder than his hammer.

I was in the school library about an hour after last bell, muddling distractedly through Algebra, when I got Ronan’s text to meet at an abandoned utility shed overlooking the ocean, a mile or so west of the Boardwalk. He was waiting for me in the parking lot, weeds growing out of cracks in the pavement. I climbed out of the Buick, shielding my eyes from the sun that was sinking behi

nd the horizon.

“You okay getting those wet?” he asked with a nod at my sandals.

“Now you tell me,” I said with a grin. “There’s no turning back now.”

A smile flickered over his lips, and then he wordlessly led me down a short path to the beach. Eastward, the shore was rocky and narrow before giving way to more sprawling beaches leading to the Boardwalk. Ronan led us westward, toward what looked like an impassable stretch of shore where the cliffs had begun a slow crumble into the sea.

I shouldered my bag and hiked up my skirt, stepping over rocks and shivering as cold water lapped at my feet.

“You do this a lot?” I asked, stumbling slightly as the boulders were growing bigger, the ocean closer.

Ronan, walking a few paces ahead of me, reached back and offered his hand. “Most nights.”

His fingers closed around mine, large and rough and warm. I held on because the way was difficult. Then it grew easier, but he didn’t let go and neither did I. He led me around a huge boulder, and on the other side was a fisherman’s shack. The ocean had retreated, crashing at the shore some twenty yards away. A bonfire pit with three beach chairs faced the horizon.

“So this is the secret hideout of the infamous Lost Boys.”

“It’s the Shack,” he said, but I could tell it was so much more. A sanctuary for him and Miller and Holden. To be invited here meant something.

Ronan led me inside the small wooden structure, and I peered around, distracted by his hand still wrapped around mine, his thumb running back and forth over my skin.

“Is that a generator?” I asked of the little machine whirring in the corner. “Ah, for the mini fridge, no less.”

“Lord Parish has standards.” Ronan smirked, but his affection for his friend was obvious.

“I’m assuming that ridiculous chair is his?” I said about the white wingback against the wall near the window.

Ronan nodded, moving closer to me, towering over me. He wasn’t smirking now. Whatever hesitation or caution he’d had in the woodshop was gone. He backed me against the edge of a long wooden table that wasn’t new but weather-beaten and salt worn. His hand came up and cupped my cheek, holding me in his strong grip as if I were something precious.

My lips parted, like an invitation, and in the next instant his mouth captured mine in a searing kiss.

God, this…

This is what I’d been starving for. Him. His mouth hard and hot on mine. His body pressed to me so that I could feel the power coursing through him, vibrating like electricity. I clung to his shoulders, then slipped my hands in his hair. His tongue invaded me, then pulled back to let his teeth graze my lips before pushing in again. Until I was dizzy. Overwhelmed in the best way, lost in everything that was him. The taste of him, the sounds he made as he kissed me—hungry sounds of want as if he’d been just as starved for me as I was for him.

We wasted no time making up for the months we’d spent doing nothing more than stealing furtive glances at each other in History class. His hands were everywhere, reacquainting himself with my body and me giving in. Molding myself into his touch to get closer. Always closer.

“You’re not shy, are you?” I whispered against his lips as his hand slid up my shirt, over my bra, squeezing.

He reared back, his eyes searching mine. “Too much? I’ll stop…”

“Don’t you dare.”

I kissed him, hot and wet, while his rough hand cupped my breast, his thumb rubbing over the hard nipple, making it ache for his mouth. I let my own hands roam, slipping under his shirt, fingertips tracing the tight lines of his abs that contracted tighter under my touch.

With a grunt, he lifted me effortlessly and set me on the table. I pulled him in, wrapping my legs around his waist. How easy it was to fall into him, how good he felt and tasted. My hesitations and self-preservation burned up in the heat of his want for me. So potent I could taste it.

A hand slid into my braids, gripping and angling me to the side for better access to my mouth. The other was still under my shirt, kneading my small breast under my bra now, flesh to flesh. His lips moved hotly down my neck, then back up, toward my ear. Tongue flicking and teeth biting until my skin was tingling everywhere.