She sets the cup down on the nightstand and looks at me.
“Then let’s try again,” she says. “It has to work, right? I just have to let you in.”
But she shudders as she says it. Her whole body tenses.
“We can take things slowly,” I offer. “How about we just lie in bed together, side by side? We only merge our fingers, then our hands. We pull back when it’s too much, so as to give you time to adjust gradually.”
She considers this, then nods.
“That could work,” she says. “I need time. I’m grateful you’re taking things slowly.”
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. I climb further onto the bed, trying to be careful. The mattress sags even more under my weight, and I settle on my side, trying not to take up too much space.
I reach out and gently pull her to lie next to me. She lies on her back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Her body is rigid and her hands fold on her stomach.
We lie there for minutes without speaking. I watch her profile – her straight nose, her determined jaw, the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat. She is beautiful, and I let myself think itnow because she can’t hear my thoughts yet. I notice how she trembles. Not from cold, but from nerves. I hate that she is so nervous. I want to make this as easy for her as possible.
“Is it okay if I touch your hair?” I ask. “So you get used to me a little. To my proximity.”
She nods without looking at me.
I reach out carefully and thread my fingers through her long red hair. It’s so soft, sliding through my fingers like silk. The strands catch the dim light from the bedside lamp, and I marvel at the texture of it. Her hair smells of coconut and vanilla. The scent fills my lungs and makes my chest tighten.
I brush her forehead gently with my fingertips. She shivers at the contact.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper.
She does. Her eyelids flutter closed, and I continue playing with her hair, letting the strands slip through my fingers, watching the red catch the light. I touch her skin here and there. Her shoulder, where I feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her shirt, her ear, tracing the shell of it and feeling her breath hitch, her neck, running my thumb along the side and noticing how much warmer her skin is there.
Goosebumps rise on her arms, and I see them spread across her skin. Humans are fragile creatures. They are very sensitive to the world around them, and very guarded. Every touch and sensation registers strongly with them. I trace her collarbone and feel her pulse racing under my fingertips.
This is all very intimate. I am aware of that. But it doesn’t compare to how intimate it will be when I pour myself under her skin, when I spread through her nervous system and feel everything she feels. This is necessary. This is me helping her adjust. Intimate doesn’t mean erotic. I tell myself that even as my body responds to her nearness, to the coconut and vanilla scent of her hair, and the soft sound of her breathing.
I would love to know every little thing that goes through her head, every thought, every fear, and every desire she keeps hidden. But I will respect my promise. I swear to myself that I will be detached no matter how hard it may be. When I merge with her and gain access to everything, I will let her thoughts glide by without digging deeper. I will not pry. I will not invade her privacy more than the merge already does.
I run my fingers through her hair again and let them trail down to her neck. She bites her lower lip.
Heat shoots through me immediately. I watch her teeth press into that soft flesh, and my cock hardens in response. I try to think of something else, try to look away from her lips, but it’s no use. I can feel my cock beginning to emerge from between my thighs, pressing out from where it stays nestled inside my body. I only pray that Wren will not open her eyes and look at me. I try to focus on her hair, on the gentle touches, on anything except the way her lip looks caught between her teeth.
I am doomed.
Completely and utterly ruined.
Chapter Eight
Wren
I’ve never been touched like this in my entire life.
Zeth is barely doing anything, just playing with my hair and running the very tips of his fingers over my skin, not even in intimate places. My forehead, my shoulder, the curve of my ear, my neck… These are simple touches that shouldn’t mean anything, but I’m already burning inside, melting into the mattress, and it’s the most intensely erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
I try to rationalize it. My last relationship ended two years ago, and since then there have been a few unsatisfying one-night stands that left me feeling emptier than before, but nothing else. I haven’t had any action with a man in too long. Even if I can take care of myself, it doesn’t compare to a man who knows what he’s doing. That must be why I’m reacting like this.
But I know I’m lying to myself.
I shiver despite my best efforts to stay still. My skin flushes hot, then cold, then hot again as his fingers trace along my collarbone. I want to pull away because it’s embarrassing how aroused I am when this whole thing we’re doing shouldn’t arouse me at all. This is supposed to be clinical – a necessary step before we can merge.
I don’t pull away. I can’t. Zeth and I need to merge, and if he thinks touching me like this will make the process easier, then I’ll lie here and let him do whatever he needs to do.
