Kiss the Stars (Falling Stars 1)

Out of bounds.

My feet carrying me in a direction I definitely did not need to be traveling.

Because Lyrik was right.

Not all of his guests could be trusted. Not all of them were good.

And this guy screamed danger.

Trouble.

But on an entirely different level than the jerk downstairs.

Because I was feeling compelled. Drawn into the darkness swarming the space. Rushing and crashing.

Somehow, I got the sense that if I got any closer, I was going to get swallowed.

“Fear.” His arrogant statement rippled the air.

I gulped.

Maybe I’d had it all wrong. Maybe he was the hunter who was scenting his prey. That he could smell the way I was drawn. Helpless to whatever the hell this attraction was—something I’d never once in all my life experienced before.

A dark lure.

I took a step backward like I could possibly get away from it.

He took one forward.

It brought him into a stream of light.

My mouth dropped open and my belly bottomed out.

I couldn’t tell if he was terrifying or beautiful.

Terrifyingly beautiful.

Yes, yes, that was it.

Tall and lean. Different than my brother, though.

Shoulders wide. Corded muscle visible, arms rippling with strength. The guy wearing a tee and tattered jeans and Vans to a gala in the Hills.

His jaw was clenched, a perfectly carved stone held so tight that I feared it might shatter and crack.

His nose straight and his brow defined. Plush lips set in a firm, hard line.

His eyes were the only part of him that could have even hinted at softness. The color of brown sugar. The edges the hardest, deepest black. Like maybe he’d witnessed too many horrible things and the grief and hatred had crystallized into slate.

And I was standing there gawking and flustered and trying to get my legs to cooperate. To knock some sense into myself because I was locked in a dark room with a stranger.

But I couldn’t move.

Stuck in a quicksand I could feel pulling me under.

His eyes traced me.

Blatantly.

Bluntly.

Something that sounded like a growl crawled up his throat when his attention fixated on where my dress was ripped at the seam. Realizing it was gaping open, I rushed to gather up the material that was split so high it was threatening to reveal my panties.

His massive hands curled at his sides.

“What happened to your dress?” His question came out sounding like a threat.

“Nothing . . . it’s fine.” It flew from my mouth at warp speed.

He surged forward, and I gasped.

He touched my chin.

A gentle prod that angled my face up into the light. He let his fingertips trace up the side of my face until his thumb was running softly over the knot that had already risen on my forehead.

Tremors rolled and I was having a hard time making sense of anything right then.

“Liar,” he grunted.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t look so fine to me.”

Those warm, sugar eyes traveled to where my hand was fisted in the skirt, his jaw ticking as he angled his face toward mine, his presence invading.

The words scraped across my cheek as he issued them. “I’m probably not the only man here who would gladly rip this dress off you, gorgeous, but it doesn’t look to me like you agreed.”

Turbulence rolled like thunder in the room.

The man too bold.

Too crass.

Too forward.

And I knew I wasn’t alone in this crazy attraction that fired and pulsed and covered me like a wicked dream.

I should run from it. No question, something that powerful was dangerous.

But I wanted it.

To feel it.

To feel alive and whole.

To stoke this spark that suddenly came to life inside me. One I’d thought had forever gone dim.

The fantasy flashed of him actually doing it. Him pushing me against the wall, hands finding my flesh under the frayed fabric, pushing it over my hips.

The clink of his belt as he freed himself.

As he took me.

Touched me and kissed me and owned me until the only thing I felt was him. Until the pain had been chased away.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I was just asking for it, wasn’t I?

Bad judgement and all of that.

I blamed it on the PTSD.

Looking for something to make me feel good in the middle of the grief, but I knew those rugged, masculine hands weren’t going to help a thing. No doubt, it wouldn’t take more than a brush of them to leave a scar.

Knowing myself, I’d be worse off than where I’d started.

“I handled it.”

A rough, disbelieving chuckle left him. “By running in here scared? Locking yourself behind a door? Hiding? Is that what you call handling it? Because I could think of plenty better ways of handling it.”

Tension bound the room, the stark violence that oozed from this man.

Something intense and protective rising up and taking over.

Urges slammed me on all sides.

Coaxing me to slip into it.

Get lost.

Maybe see if it was powerful enough to make me forget.