Then turns back to me.
“Hey,” I tell him. We’re standing so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. “Thank you. For listening. For not trying to fix me.”
“You’re not broken,” he says again. Like he needs me to believe it.
“I know.” I do know. Mostly. “But right now I just... I need you to make me forget everything. There’s only us. Here. Now.”
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” And then I’m kissing him. Or he’s kissing me. Or we’re both kissing each other and it doesn’t matter who started it because we’re finally doing what we’ve both been thinking about since we got here.
His mouth tastes like the wine we had with dinner. His hands are warm and sure as they slide into my hair. And for the first time since we arrived in these godforsaken woods, I’m not counting breaths or fighting panic or white-knuckling my way through fear.
I’m just....here.
With him.
Wanting this more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life.
“Jess.” He breaks the kiss just long enough to check. “You sure?”
“Sososure.” I pull him back to my lips.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my mouth.
Oh God those two words.
And then he’s walking me backward toward the couch and I’m letting him because apparently I’ve lost all ability to make rational decisions.
37
Jess
Not that I want to make rational decisions right now.
Rational is overrated when you’re being kissed by Marco Fiore in a cabin in the woods after spilling your darkest trauma and having him just... hold you through it.
The fire’s down to embers now. Just that low orange glow that makes shadows dance across the cabin walls in ways that should probably freak me out but somehow don’t.
Maybe because I just spilled my guts about the worst thing that ever happened to me and Marco didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer platitudes or empty promises that the woods are perfectly safe.
He just held me. Counted breaths with me. Let me be scared and brave at the same time.
When the man you’re falling for becomes the safest place you know.
My back hits the couch and he follows me down, his weight pressing me into the cushions in the best possible way.
“You okay?” he asks between those amazing kisses.
“Getting there.” I pull back enough to look at him. Those dark eyes catch the firelight and I swear to God this man is always so unfairly beautiful. “Thank you. For listening. For not trying to solve me.”
“Nothing to solve.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “You survived. That’s what matters.”
The words settle somewhere deep in my chest. Because he’s right. I did survive. Seven-year-old me made it out of those woods alive.
And current me is choosing to be here.
Choosing him.
