The world stops for the briefest of moments, so that the only sound is the soft hum of music from the speakers above.

Then I begin to move at a frenzied, desperate pace, unable to get enough of her. Her tongue. Her lips. Her hands. Her skin. Her pussy.

This.

Just this.

Her.

Just her.

It’s all I can focus on as one of my hands holds the back of her neck and the other a cheek of her ass as we move together on the edge of the pool table.

My beginning is her end.

My exhale becomes her next inhale.

Her tightening around me is my goddamn endgame.

What the fuck is happening to me?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Chase

WELL, THAT DEFINITELY BACKFIRED.

It’s my first thought as I wake up in my hotel room and come face to face with Gunner, sound asleep on the pillow beside me.

I went back to the bar to prove to myself that this thing with Gunner was just sex. Just physical. And now I feel more tangled in him than the sheets wrapped around our legs.

But how can I not?

And why should I even try to deny whatever this twisty, turny, fluttery feeling I have is when I wake up to find him still warming the sheets beside me?

That’s not normal for me.

This is not normal.

And yet, I can’t take my eyes off him nor deny the urge and desire to reach out and touch his face or the scars on his chest. To feel the bumps and ridges that mar him as I attempt to fathom the devastation he’s seen, and the unspeakable trauma he’s lived through.

And it just goes to show that you never really know somebody, because all I’ve seen from Gunner is smiles and sweet charm. And up until last night and what Nix told me, I never would’ve known that there was turmoil beneath the surface. That Gunner struggles in silence and private from the things he’s experienced and seen.

But isn’t that like most people? Everyone has things they hide from the world. The darkness that calls to them when it’s quiet and lonely.

Is that why he keeps so busy? To keep the demons at bay?

Is that why I keep so busy? To keep my demons at bay?

I scoot closer and press a kiss to his chest, to his shoulder, and then snuggle into him. He reacts reflexively, pulling me against him with a murmured good morning before stilling when I press another kiss to his scars.

And then another.

His chest hitches as he holds his breath, but I press my hand against him so he knows I feel them—the ugly red ridges marring its surface.

“Chase,” he murmurs.

“These don’t scare me.” Another kiss pressed against his tensed pec. “They are a part of you and they don’t scare me.”