Yana West

You can't stop staring at the redhead, that burning copper hair pulling your attention like a flame you already know will leave a mark.

You feel the warmth of her gaze settle somewhere low in your chest, then lower still, a slow heat that has nothing to do with the light in the room.

You want to reach through the screen, trace the curve of what's offered to you, take your time with every inch — because something about this moment tells you rushing would be a genuine waste.