Your Echo (Sherbrooke Station Book 2) by Katia Rose

Author:Katia Rose [Rose, Katia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

13 Late Night || Foals

STÉPHANIE

When I’m a panting, wild mess on the bench, and Ace looks like he’s ready to take me then and there, we get up and run to his apartment as fast as my heels will allow. He asked if we could go to mine, but I don’t want to spend this night worrying about my roommate. I want whatever is going to happen next to be loud and fast and hard.

“I don’t”—Ace struggles to get the words out as I kiss him up against the wall of his building—“have very many people over..."

“I don’t mind a mess, as long as we can clear a spot on the floor.”

He laughs deep in his throat, a sound that’s both menacing and hungry. “God, you’re something else.”

His apartment is in a large, two-storey house that’s been split into a few units inside. He takes my hand to pull me through the entryway and up a flight of sagging stairs. I can smell weed in the hallway and the mix of sweat and spilt vodka that seems to cling to all student housing.

“Impressive, right?” Ace asks, sweeping his hand around the dingy hallway.

“I’m just surprised you don’t have a line of fan girls waiting outside the door.”

He pats me on the head. “I have my number one fan girl right here.”

I narrow my eyes. “Do or say that again, connard, and I swear I will actually bite you.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

He fishes his keys out of his pocket, and I follow him into the studio apartment. It’s dim, lit only by the streetlamp spilling in through the open window, but he doesn’t turn any lights on. I expected a typical bachelor’s living habits, and while the place is cluttered, I wouldn’t call it a mess. It’s more of a nest. The room is a cross section of Ace’s life: guitars and sheets of music, leather jackets and tattered books. A black and grey tapestry hangs on the wall over his bed.

He hears my soft breath of laughter and gives me a questioning glance.

“It looks like a poet lives here,” I explain. “I’m imagining you writing by candlelight in the dead of night, with a quill.”

He moves farther into the room. “Can’t say I’ve used a quill before, but these”—he stoops down and pulls a box out from under his bed—“are from when I used to not be able to pay the electricity every month.”

He tilts the box so I can see all the mismatched candles inside, then sets two of them down on the table beside his bed and grabs a lighter. The snick of the lighter sounds before the flame glows, painting his face in red light and wavering shadows as he gets the candles going.

“Candles?” I joke. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

He doesn’t answer—just takes a seat on the edge of his bed and leans back on his elbows, watching me.

“Spin around,” he orders. “I want to see you in that dress a little longer.”

I drop

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