Page 81 of Lethal in Pink

I look at him. Really look at him—the sharp cut of his jaw in profile, the city light turning his skin gold and shadow, the quiet intensity of his eyes. “I haven't decided yet.”

Something shifts in his expression—warmer, more complicated. He holds my gaze for a beat longer than he needs to, then looks back out at the city.

“My turn,” I say. “You’re at a crossroads. Two paths. One leads to safety, predictability, a life you already know the shape of. The other leads to something unknown—could be amazing, could destroy you. No guarantees either way. Which path do you take?”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“The unknown,” he says finally, his voice dropping an octave, rough around the edges. “Every time.”

“Why?”

“Because safety is just another word for surrender.” He turns to look at me, and the raw weight in his eyes hits like a physical blow. “And I didn’t cross an ocean to surrender.”

The silence that follows is charged, heavy with something neither of us has named. I laugh at something he says about his sister’s shark blanket, real and unguarded—the kind of laugh that means my armor has cracked and I hadn't even noticed the lock giving way.

Then he catches me looking.

Not a glance—a look. His dark eyes find mine in the dim light and hold there, unblinking, the air in the car shifting so completely I can feel the pressure change in my ears.

“Careful, hotshot,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling growl that vibrates through the leather console.

“Or what?”

The corner of his mouth lifts in that slow, infuriating curve. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to assume you like me.”

I lean in. Close enough to taste the dark, quiet air between us. “Quite overly confident, aren’t we?”

His eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second—a quick, hungry glance. When he looks back up, his expression has darkened into something that makes my breath catch.

“You tell me,” he whispers.

His lips are inches from mine. Every carefully maintained boundary I have built since the day he sat too close to me in class is right here, drawn in the air between our mouths.

I cross it.

I kiss him.

Not a tentative brush, not a question. I just lean across the console and press my mouth straight into his.

My hand finds his jaw, my fingers curling hard into the skin behind his ear. The second our lips hit, something in my chest caves in completely, and I gasp right against his mouth.

Jae makes a low, rough sound in the back of his throat—half surprise, half hunger—and his hand snaps to the back of my neck, fingers tangling deep in my hair. He pulls me in hard, like he’s been waiting months just to find out if I taste the way he imagined. His mouth is warm and parted, kissing me with a heavy, desperate edge that leaves zero room to breathe.

I don’t pull away. I press closer, my palm flat against his chest so I can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart right through his shirt. His other hand drops to my waist, his thumb dragging a slow, burning line across the bare skin above my skirt, and the friction is so sharp I actually arch into it before I can even think to stop myself.

I swing my leg over.

One smooth, decisive movement—my knee pressing into the leather beside his hip, my other foot finding the floorboard, and then I’m straddling him, the skirt riding up to the tops of my thighs, the heat of his body beneath me radiating through the thin fabric of my clothes. Jae’s hands find my waist instantly, his grip firm, anchoring me against him as his head tilts back to look up at me.

His eyes are nearly black in the dim light, pupils blown wide, his breath coming fast and shallow.

“Fuck, Amiyah,” he breathes against my mouth.

His hands slide under the hem of my top, palms flat against the bare skin of my ribs, and the contact is so direct it makes me shudder. He pushes the fabric up slowly, and when I lift my arms and let him pull it over my head, the cool night air hits my bare skin, my nipples hardening instantly.

Jae’s gaze drops to my chest, the hunger in his expression so naked my throat tightens. “Jesus,” he whispers.

His mouth is on my collarbone, his lips trailing a hot, wet path down to the curve of my breast, and when he takes my nipple into his mouth—sucking hard, his tongue circling the sensitive peak—the sound tearing out of me is ragged and desperate.