◆◆◆ Chapter 7 ◆◆◆
~ Kris Hunter ~
The sleek black Aston Martin purred to a stop outside my apartment building, engine idling low like it was too elegant for this cracked sidewalk and flickering streetlamp.
The neighbourhood looked even shabbier under the headlights — peeling paint on the concrete walls, weeds pushing through pavement cracks, the distant thump of someone’s subwoofer rattling windows three floors up. Niklaus’s car didn’t belong here. Neither did he.
He killed the engine and turned to me, one forearm resting on the steering wheel, the other hand still warm from where it had been resting high on my thigh the entire drive.
My skin still tingled from his touch, from the slow, deliberate circles he’d traced over my inner thigh while I tried (and failed) to keep my breathing
