Page 7 of Ruined By King

King steps out of the shadows like he was made from them. The distant glow of the rally catches the edges of his cut, the hard line of his jaw, the gleam of his eyes fixed on me like I'm prey and he's been hunting me all night.

"Are you following me?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, edged with something that's not quite anger.

"Didn't have to." He moves closer, slow and deliberate, a predator who knows his target isn't going to run. "You walked right to me."

I glance around. We're alone out here — really alone, hidden from the rally by the row of bikes and a stand of scraggly trees. No one can see us. No one knows I'm here.

That should make me feel safer. It doesn't.

"I wasn't looking for you," I say.

"No?" He's close now. Too close. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that one of us just has to lean in and— "Then why'd you come to the one place no one would see?"

I don't have an answer for that. Or I do, but I'm not willing to say it out loud.

"My father's camp is right over there. His whole club is right over there."

"I know."

"If anyone sees us⁠—"

"They won't."

He's right in front of me now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. This close, I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are fisted at his sides like he's holding himself back by sheer force of will. He's not as controlled as he wants me to think.

Good. Neither am I.

"Tell me to leave," he says, and his voice is rougher now, lower. "Tell me to walk away and I will. But you have to say it, Demi. You have to mean it."

I should say it. The word is right there, sitting on my tongue. Leave. Go. This can't happen.

But when I open my mouth, what comes out is: "And if I don't?"

Something shifts in his expression. The leash he's been keeping on himself strains, and I can see what's underneath — raw want, barely contained. It sends a thrill down my spine that's equal parts fear and anticipation.

"Then I'm going to kiss you," he says. "And I'm not going to be gentle about it."

My whole body tightens. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly, slicking between my thighs. I know I should stop this. I know I should be smart, be careful, be the good daughter who doesn't cross lines.

But I'm so fucking tired of being good.

"Then stop talking," I breathe, "and do it."

He moves fast.

One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. The other grips my hip, fingers digging in, yanking me against him so fast I gasp. And then his mouth is on mine, and I stop thinking entirely.

The kiss is everything he promised — not gentle, not soft, not careful. He kisses me like he's been starving for it, like he's been thinking about this as long as I have and now that he has me, he's going to take everything. His tongue sweeps against mine, demanding, and I open for him with a moan I couldn't have stopped if I tried.

He swallows the sound, his grip tightening in my hair, angling my head so he can kiss me deeper. I grab fistfuls of his cut just to hold on, just to anchor myself, because my knees have gone weak and I'm not sure I can stand on my own.

He tastes like beer and danger and something I already know I'm going to be addicted to.

He walks me backward until I hit the rough bark of a tree, and I don't care. All I care about is his mouth on mine and his hands on my body and the hard press of him against my stomach, proof that this is wrecking him as much as it's wrecking me.

I don't know how long we stay like that. Seconds. Minutes. Time loses all meaning when his tongue is in my mouth and his hand is sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me tighter against him. I can feel every inch of how much he wants me, and God, I want him just as badly.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are dark and wild and locked on my face.