And then—
I shift, barely, and feel it.
The slow, unmistakable swell of him pressing hard against my hip.
Oh.
Oh.
Did that really turn him on?
The idea that I could come undone so completely I might disappear?
Apparently, yes.
Because he exhales again— sharp, shaky. His fingers twitch like they want to pull me closer, grip tighter. His cock throbs against my hip.
And gods help me, I want to move.
Just a little. Just enough to feel more.
But instead, I press my forehead harder into his chest and breathe him in.
Antiseptic. Citrus. Clean and sharp and sohim.
Control slips through my fingers like water.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “I’m doomed.”
“Well,” he says, voice thin, strained, “could be worse. You could’ve fallen out of the ambulance.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I murmur. “And you know it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus.
Trying not to rub against him.
Trying not tomoan.
He stays perfectly still. Like he knows one wrong move will tip us both over the edge. The space between restraint and chaos thins until it’s nearly nothing.
“I thought the pull hurt,” I breathe. “But getting a new body from Death himself? That’s a fucking kicker.”
I expect something, anything.
His fingers tightening.
A quiet breath, a laugh, maybe even some reckless encouragement to go ahead and risk it.
But instead, nothing.
Nathaniel stills like someone sucked out the oxygen from this entire vehicle. The heat drains from his hands. His chest no longer rises beneath mine in a steady rhythm. It’s gone tight, suspended. His fingers hover, unmoving. His pulse stutters beneath my cheek.
And I know.
Iknow.
Right.
