“Sleep,” I say, close enough for her to feel it. “It’ll come when you stop fighting it.”
“It’s . . . freezing in here.”
“I can help with that.”
She doesn’t look away. When my hand moves from her temple to her jaw, then settles flat over her collarbone, she doesn’t stop me, either.
The heat under her skin hits my palm. Her breath hitches. I feel her tremble, not from cold—from whatever’s coiled tight inside her. I’m starving to touch her, to learn the language of her body in the dark, to give her something steady to hold on to.
“Wells,” she whispers.
“Elsie.”
Her throat works over a hard swallow. “Why does it feel like this? Like something’s clawing out of my ribs, like the room can’t hold it? Like I need you to touch me more than I need air?”
My thumb drags slowly over her pulse. It’s racing.
Mine is worse.
“Desire. Arousal. Want,” I tell her quietly. “You’ve never felt it before?”
Her breath trembles. “Not like this.”
That admission snaps something in me I’ve kept locked down for weeks. I lean in, close enough that her breath ghosts across my cheek. Her lashes flutter, and I swear I can feel every centimeter of distance we haven’t yet crossed.
“Elsie,” I murmur, my hand still firm at her collarbone, “you’re shaking.”
“I don’t know if it’s the cold or—” She breaks, swallows hard. “Or something else.”
“It’s something else.” My thumb traces the hollow at the base of her throat. “You think I don’t feel it, too?”
Her eyes lock onto mine, wide, searching. I see the flicker of doubt there—the fear of wanting the wrong thing, of stepping off the edge without a safety net. So, I stop myself.
“I want to kiss you,” she says. “I want more than that. But—”
“Listen to me.” My voice is rough, low. “I won’t let doubt wreck this. I won’t let regret touch it.” I keep my palm firm where her heartbeat gallops. “You can forget it in the morning if you want. But tonight, we can choose one thing. Just one. Without tearing it apart before it’s even begun.”
Her lips part on a shaky exhale. “We can?”
“We can try.”
Her fingers curl in the blanket between us, knuckles white. I watch her choose—fear or fire. When she lifts her chin the smallest inch, I feel it like a hand to the chest.
“Oh,” she whispers.
That single syllable undoes me.
My hand drifts from her collarbone to her shoulder, thumb brushing the cotton of her shirt before it finds bare skin at the dip of her neck.
Her breath hitches.
“Is this all right?” I ask.
“More.”
God help me.
I slide closer, the quilt bunching between us. Her legs draw up, folding toward mine until we’re sharing the same heat. I can feel every tremor rolling off her—nerves, want. My palm cups the side of her throat, not holding, only feeling. Her pulse slams against my hand.
