"Do they hurt?"
"Not anymore. They're just... there. Marks of what I was."
"What you survived," she corrects. Her fingers trace a particularly long scar across my ribs. "Each one is a time you lived through something that should have killed you."
I never thought of it that way. To me, they were just evidence of violence. Of being used as a weapon. Of all the ways I failed to protect myself because I wasn't allowed to.
But the way she says it, the way her fingers trace each mark with something like reverence...
"You're doing it again," she says softly.
"Doing what?"
"Thinking too hard. I can feel it through the bond." She shifts slightly against me. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."
"That's not..." I stop, because how do I explain? "You're very close."
"That's kind of the point of sharing body heat."
"Yes, but." I search for words. "You're very close. And you're barely dressed. And I can feel every breath you take, every movement you make, and I’m trying to..."
"Trying to what?" Her voice has changed slightly. Less cold-shaky, more... something else.
"I'm trying very hard to be appropriate," I say tightly.
There's a pause. “What if I don't want you to be appropriate?"
My breath catches. "Iris."
"I'm just saying." Her hand has stilled on my chest, palm flat over my heart. "We're here. Together. And I keep thinking about the other night." She trails off.
"When you kissed me. About how I wanted more but you pulled away." She turns her head, and I scan the curve of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse. "About how I've been thinking about it constantly ever since."
"You shouldn't." The words come out rough. "I'm not... I can't..."
"Can't what?" She resettles in my arms. The blanket stays around us, but now she's straddling my lap, her hands on my shoulders, her face inches from mine. "Can't want me? Because I feel what you feel through the bond, remember. And I know you want this."
She's right. The bond is singing between us now, carrying everything I'm trying to hide. The want, the need, the desperate hunger that has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with her.
"This is a bad idea," I manage.
"Probably." She's leaning closer. "But I'm warm now. And safe. And I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
"Iris, you murder me."
"If you don't want this, say so. I'll move. I'll get dressed and we'll pretend this never happened." Her eyes meet mine, steady despite the flush on her cheeks. "But if you do want this... I'm giving you permission to want me back."
Permission. She's giving me permission.
The last thread of my control snaps.
I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.
She makes a soft sound of surprise and pleasure against my mouth, and then she's kissing me back. Her hands slide into my hair, holding me close, and I can feel the heat of her even through the thin fabric of her shift.
This is different from the last time we kissed. That was tentative, testing. This is hunger. Need. Two weeks of tension finally breaking.
I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair, the other settling at her waist. She tastes like honey and herbs and home, and I can't get enough. Can't get close enough.
