Quando o Amor Vira a Faca

BECCA'S POV 

The first groan didn't sound like a student. It sounded like a man dying.

I froze, the rhythm of my Butterfly sewing machine snapping like a broken thread. Before I could lock the door, he was there. Josh. The boy who owned every girl’s dreams on campus, stumbling into my lab, covered in blood and looking like a beautiful, fallen angel.

He didn't ask for help. He took it.

When the men with the heavy boots pounded on the door, Josh didn't just cover my mouth. He pinned me against the cold wood of the storage closet, his body a wall of hard muscle and desperate heat.

Then, he kissed me.

It wasn't a request; it was a robbery. It tasted of iron and expensive mint. My religious upbringing screamed for me to push him away, but my body—hungry and ignored for twenty years—melted. For a heartbeat, I wasn't the 'Good Girl' nor was I the church girl. I was a woman drowning in the scent of a man who was clearly bad for my soul.

"Be quiet," he whispered against my lips, his thumb grazing my jaw in a way that made my knees turn to water. "Unless you want us both to die right here."

Josh’s hand didn’t move from my waist. If anything, his grip tightened, pulling me so flush against him that I could feel the erratic, heavy thud of his heart through his ruined silk shirt. The scent of him was overwhelming—sandalwood, rain, and the raw, metallic tang of the blood soaking into his side.

The footsteps outside stopped. A shadow blocked the sliver of light beneath the closet door.

"I know you're in this block, Josh," the voice from the hallway drawled. It was as smooth, like oil over a blade as it was sinister. "Don't make this messy. You have something that doesn't belong to you."

My breath hitched, a tiny sound of pure terror. Instantly, Josh’s lips were back on mine. This wasn't a distraction anymore; it was a desperate silencing. He tasted like a fever. His tongue traced the seam of my lips with a command that made my brain go blank.

I was a 300-level student who could recite the chemical composition of synthetic fibers, but I couldn't remember how to breathe. My hands, originally raised to shove him away, found purchase in the damp fabric of his shirt. My fingers curled into the expensive material, anchoring me as the world narrowed down to the heat of his mouth and the dangerous vibration of his chest against mine.

He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes were dark, hooded, and focused entirely on my mouth. "If you scream," he whispered, his breath hot against my skin, "we both lose. But if you stay quiet... I’ll make it worth your while."

The threat outside moved on, the heavy thud of boots fading toward the back exit of the lab. But the danger inside the closet was only growing.

Josh’s gaze dropped to the pulse jumping in my neck. He leaned in, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear. "You're shivering, Becca," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a different kind of chill down my spine. "Is it fear? Or is it because no one has ever held you like this?"

I gasped, my back arching slightly as his hand slid upward, his palm hot against the small of my back fondling my breasts. The "Amazing Grace" I had been humming earlier was a distant memory. This was a different kind of ritual.

"You're a monster," I managed to choke out, though my voice lacked any real sting.

"I'm a man who's about to bleed out on your floor," Josh countered, his eyes flashing with a mix of pain and arrogance. He shifted, a hiss of agony escaping him as his wound protested. He slumped slightly, his weight pinning me more firmly against the wall. "But if I’m going down, I might as well enjoy the view."

He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip, which was still swollen from his kiss. "Tell me, Stranger... does the curriculum cover how to patch up a fugitive? Or should I just keep distracting you until the lights go out?"