With her hands, both hands, upon my chest.
Remember this. Allow her touch to brand my skin. Burn through this pointless fabric.
She doesn’t move. She keeps her palms right there, meaning…
Is she looking at me? Yes. She must be. Which is why when I feel one hand lift, and the slightest touch against my hair, I’m able to prepare myself just enough to not flinch.
She’s touching my hair.
She’s brushing it back with a touch so soft I should barely be able to feel it. But I can.
I feel it everywhere.
And her embarrassment turns into something deeper, heavier.
I can’t allow this.
I kept my eyes closed to stop her feeling worse but now, I’m beginning to feel guilty. As the fingers on my chest begin to trail higher, almost reaching my collarbone, I reach out—
“Fuck!” she squeals, immediately trying to tug her wrist out of my grip, eyes frantic as they search my face.
But I refuse to let go.
She quickly calms herself, her other hand—the one that was just touching my hair, just a few inches from my face, rushes to her chest.
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, I was just—I was…”
Say it. Tell me. Please explain what you were just doing to me with those perfect hands.
But it’d be cruel to expect her to answer, or to allow the tense silence to continue.
“How do you feel?” I ask, the rasp in my voice so unfamiliar. How long have we slept?
Her vibrant gaze softens, becoming almost glassy as she studies my face. I haven’t let go of her wrist. I don’t plan to, not until she asks or tries to pull away. But she hasn’t.
She wets her lips and her eyes flicker over me as though wondering exactly what to say.
“So much better,” she sighs, her entire body drooping with relief.
My lip twitches—I think—I can’t help it, and her lips purse together.
“Alright, don’t look so smug.” Her mouth flickers too.
“I’m not smug.”
“Sure you’re not.” She rolls her eyes and I fight away my indecent thoughts. She’s utterly oblivious to how she makes me feel. How her small actions waver my constraint. “Even when you know I only feel better because of you? Because of… this.”
She gently waves her other hand over us. I watch, thrilled that she didn’t try to use the hand with the wrist I’m still grasping.
“You can feel emotions, empath.” Her eyes flare open at me naming her race, but she doesn’t look angry, no... “Do I feel smug?”
I arch a brow, and she immediately narrows her gaze at the challenge.
It takes her a few seconds and I study her face the entire time, utterly fascinated by the way her lips softly part, her burning gaze still a soft glaze.
“No, no you don’t,” she whispers, as if the words are drawn from her by whatever she feels from me.
Her eyes are locked with mine, the vibrant colour a soft, entrancing hue. Then they suddenly widen, as though awoken from a trance, and finally, unfortunately, she pulls just enough that I let go.
