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And in the middle of my chaos, there was you.
Most notably, someone in my life would probably have an issue with me being friends with someone I instantly label as really fucking hot, and that person would not quietly endorse said friendship.
“Are you even old enough to be here?” And just like that, his hotness is forgotten. God dammit. It’s always the hot ones.
she says in a voice so soft and soothing, I could probably fall asleep to it.
Various shades of purple and yellow, it wraps around her wrist like a nauseating bracelet, and I have to look away before the urge to murder Dylan fucking Wells becomes too strong not to give into.
A very wet, very half-naked, very hot guy. It takes all of my willpower not to let my gaze drop to the tattooed chest on full display. Or the gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. No, my eyes remain firmly trained on his face. His beautiful, smirking face. Fuck my life. “I think this is the part where you say good morning, querida.” God. A hot voice to go with a hot body.
“We broke up last night.” “Aw, shit,” Cass frowns. “Do I need to kick some ass?” I shake my head, positive I’m the only one who hears Nick mumble a quiet, ‘yes.’
don’t think I’m fit for being in public right now.” “Look fine to me.” The words are barely out of Nick’s mouth before he goes flying sideways.
“He asked for your number.” Suspicion, and something else I can’t put a name to, tickles my spine. “When?” “Like, an hour ago. Nick asked Jackson to ask me for it. Cass slapped him.”
“Leave. Me. Alone.” Anger flushes Will’s skin, his nostrils flaring in an unattractive display of indignance. His whiny mouth opens, probably to hiss more hate, but he doesn’t get the chance. “Don’t make her tell you again.”
“You mad at me, querida?”
“I’m tryna talk to my girl so if you could leave us alone, that’d be great.” My girl, my silly little brain sings.
“Could always sleep in my bed. I’ll protect you.” “Dream on.” “Believe me, querida, I will.”
He takes his time unwrapping my hands, his attention lingering on one wrist in particular. The pad of his thumb smoothes over the purple imperfection doing its best to last. “Does it hurt?”
I fucking love our sessions. There’s something about watching her get stronger and more confident and looking so fucking proud of herself when she nails a combination… fuck.
When she dips to grab her bag, I snatch it before she can, slinging the tote over my shoulder.
I want her so bad.
She’s…. light. She’s literal sunshine. And it makes a burst of anger shoot through me because I know that for so long, she was with someone who did nothing but dim her.
It should be illegal, really, how he manages to look so handsome, so charming, with a face that damaged. “If I’m a good boy, do I get a drink?” And it should be illegal that not even a severe beating can knock the flirt out of him.
My traitorous heart skips a beat when he spreads his legs and maneuvers me between them, pesky guilt suddenly fighting for dominance over something else entirely as I’m trapped between a pair of thick thighs. “Fix me up, doc.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as my thumb sweeps over his cheek in a way meant to be comforting but is probably weird. “Stop apologizing,” Nick murmurs, his breath washing over my hand as I swipe his bloody lip clean. I must press too hard, though, because he jolts slightly, his quiet groan echoed by my hushed gasp when his hands suddenly grip the backs of my thighs, his long fingers hot against my skin. It only lasts a split second—like it was a gut reaction or a reflex or something—but the impression feels branding.
One hand glides to rest on the small of my back while the other coasts upwards. His palms glides over my neck, his thumb tracing my jawbone, and he holds me like that. He stares at me, something undecipherable flooding his golden irises as they inspect me carefully.
And when he murmurs, “I just gotta hold you for a sec,” in a quiet, calm, honest voice, that feels pretty freaking perilous too.
Nicolas Silva doesn’t fuck with feelings. Nicolas Silva just fucks.
“They talk about you all the time.” Curious, disbelieving eyes slide to mine. “Really?” “Non-stop, Amelia. I was sick of you before I even knew you.” A choked, watery laugh escapes her. “Oh yeah?” “Uh-huh.” No.
“You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her. If you do, fucking trust me, I will make what I did to Dylan last night look like a fucking spa treatment. Okay?”
“She your girlfriend or something, Silva?” I don’t take my eyes off him, don’t relax, as I reply. “Or something.”
“Hey.” “Hi.” My steps falter a few feet before I reach him. “What’re you doing here?” “I was in the neighborhood,” he lies with a wonky smile. “Thought I’d swing by.” Squinting at him through suspicious eyes, I sigh. “You’re checking on me.” Nick scoffs indignantly but he doesn’t deny it.
😭
“I’m sorry I ruined your birthday, by the way.” “You didn’t.” It’s my turn to deadpan him. “My ex-boyfriend beat the crap out of you for talking to me.” “And the night ended with a pretty girl in my bed, fawning over me,” Nick retorts smoothly. “I’d call that a win.”
“What?” She grins, wide and unabashed, her exhaustion suddenly moot. “A little teasing is good for him. Keeps his ego in check. Stops his big head from getting stuck
Yeah. I’m fucked.
“You’re sweet to me.” “Because I like you,”
Stop being so nice to me, I command silently. Stop it before I freaking fall in love with you.
“That mouth of yours is dangerous, you know?”
“You look so beautiful, Amelia.” “See, Nick.” Over Lynn’s shoulder, I watch James nail Nick in the ribs. “That’s how you compliment a woman.”
He enters my room, bringing with him the thick tension that seems to permanently exist between us, always out to make my heart thump a beat faster, my stomach tight, my hands clammy. I can’t put a name to it, or at least not one I want to admit it. It’s just there. Always. Alive and pulsating.
“You have a good day?” Again, I answer. “I did.” “Good.” With a satisfied nod that does weird things to my lower belly, Nick tugs one last time before releasing me, leaving me oddly bereft as he moves toward the door. “See you tomorrow, querida.” I pray to every higher power in existence that when I issue my own goodbye, it isn’t actually as breathy as it sounds to my own ears, “Night, Nick.”
“Brother’s best friend.” He pokes me in the thigh. “Very cliché, Tiny.”
“Don’t walk away from me.” “Don’t be a dick for no reason.”
A deep, grumbling, growling noise rumbles in Nick’s throat. Suddenly, his hands are on my hips, his forehead is dropped to mine, both working in tandem to force me back step after step until I hit the counter. “You don’t fucking get it, do you?”
LORD HAVE MERCY 🧎♀️
“Sometimes, I find it hard to look at you,” he murmurs, “because you’re so fucking beautiful I can’t think.”
???/?/?:?:?:?:??:
“If you’re waiting for an apology, you’re not gonna get one.” “I’m not.” Soft, smooth skin brushes my cheek and my whole body trembles. “I’m done waiting.” I don’t get a chance to ask what he’s been waiting for. In a split second, every intelligible thought empties from my brain, chased away by the feeling of Nick’s lips crashing down on mine.
“Fuck, Amelia,” he rasps between lashes of his tongue, nips of his teeth. “Sabia que seria assim.”
And his hands, God, his hands. They’re everywhere, all at once, caressing every bit of skin they can access with a burning reverence I have no capacity to dwell on, to properly appreciate, not when one cups the nape of my neck with head-scrambling authority, holding me in place while the other slips beneath the fabric of my t-shirt to palm the bare small of my back with surprising gentleness.
“Nick.” His name is half a whine, half a pant. Fingers graze my cheek as he tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes?” “Stop staring at me.” “I like staring at you.” The tingling in my lips amps up a notch when he swipes the bottom one gently. “Do it a lot.”
Dimples.
DIED
“Please, querida. Let me.”
“You gonna look at me?” “Wasn’t planning on it.” Chuckling quietly, Nick props up my chin to gently redirect my gaze to his. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he smooths down what I can only imagine is a wild mess of curls, “stop.”
This isn’t the Amelia I know, my Amelia, the downright shy girl who blushes the most brilliant shade of red and can barely look me in the eye when I flirt with her.
“Please stop crying.” I’m begging like an asshole and I’m well aware of it but I don’t know what else to do and it doesn’t matter anyway because it doesn’t fucking work. “Tell me what to do, querida.”
