I stepped closer until I was pressed against his chest.
“You are not taking anything,” I said. “I am asking you. I am choosing you. I always have.”
His hand came up to my face and he gently brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You sure?” he asked. “Once I start, I ain’t gonna be able to pretend I don’t want you the way I do. There is no goin’ back to pretendin’ we’re just friends who share demons, cher.”
“We were never just friends,” I said. “And you already went to Hell for me. I think it is a little late to worry about crossing lines.”
That pulled a low, rough sound out of him, something between a laugh and a groan.
“Stubborn woman,” he said. “You gonna be the death of me.”
“Already dragged you to Hell,” I said. “I figure the rest is just details.”
He shook his head, but there was a small smile now.
“You talk pretty for a girl who nearly bashed some guys head in,” he said.
“I am trying not to think about any of that for five minutes, Hellsing” I said. “Help me.”
He leaned in. His mouth brushed mine in a soft kiss. His lips were warm, and his breath tasted like coffee and whiskey. I pressed into it, answering without words.
His hand slid to the back of my neck and held me there as he deepened it, his tongue sweeping over mine, slow and sure. Heat sparked low in my belly. My fingers fisted the front of his shirt.
For a moment, everything else fell away. No coffin. No demon. No blood spilt. Just the feel of his mouth and the steady strength of his body against mine. He broke the kiss long enough to breathe, his forehead resting against mine.
“You told me you needed to feel somethin’,” he said, his voice rough. “This is the best I can do, cher.”
“This is not what I had in mind,” I said, breathless, even though it was exactly what I had wanted and more.
“Liar,” he murmured.
He trailed kisses along my jaw, down the side of my neck. Each slow press pulled a soft sound from me. His hand slid down my back, over the curve of my hip, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
“You feel that?” he whispered against my skin. “That’s me. That’s real. That ain’t evil. It ain’t grief. That’s just you and me under this tree.”
My head tipped back. My pulse raced. My body ached for more. I pressed my thighs together and still felt the need to climb.
“You feel so good against me,” I said, the words tumbling out in a low rush. “Every time you touch me, it is like my skin wakes up.”
He gave a soft curse, his breath hot against my throat.
“Gracie,” he said. “If you don’t stop talkin’ like that, I’m gonna lose it right here.”
“Isn’t that the point?” I asked.
His grip on my hip tightened.
“No,” he said. “The point is to take my time. The point is to watch you come apart slow in my arms, not just rush you through it because we’re both hurtin’.”
I met his eyes. “Then take your time,” I said. “I am not goin’ anywhere.”
Something shifted in his gaze. The grief did not vanish, but it settled deeper, wrapped around something more powerful. Love.
He turned me gently until my back met the rough trunk of the willow. The bark was cool through my dress. He braced one hand beside my head and moved his mouth over mine again, kissing me until I forgot how to breathe right.
His other hand slid down, fingers brushing the back of my knee, coaxing my leg up around his hip. The position pulled me closer, pressed him firmly between my thighs. Heat flared where our bodies met. I made a needy sound, and his breath stuttered.
