floating,
falling,
and Gabriel is with me, jerking and stilling.
We come out of a daze we created, and still he holds me, fingers brushing my back and soft kisses dotting my shoulder. I’m draped over him. My bones have liquified, rendering my limbs useless. “That was so good,” I murmur, my lips on his neck.
“Yes.” He’s still catching his breath. “Incredible. I knew it would be.”
“Why did we wait so long to do something that good?”
“Sometimes, fires are too hot to enter.” He kisses the top of my head. “That’s what you feel like. Or, what I feel when I’m with you. My feelings for you…they’re intense. If I had to compare it to my job, I’d say it’s the hottest fire I’ve ever come up against.”
Wow. That answer definitely works.
“Avery?”
“Hmm?”
“Is it too soon for me to tell you I love you?”
Surprise makes me regain the use of my body. I pull back to look at him. He looks serious, and vulnerable. Happiness bursts inside me, and I tell him, “I don’t believe love has a timeline. So, no, it’s not too soon.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear. “Then I love you.”
My smile spreads slowly, like melting chocolate. We’re naked, but I lay it all down, baring my heart and my soul. “I think I’ve loved you since I met you, hero.”
Gabriel closes his eyes, a low moan vibrating his throat. “Baby, we’re in trouble.”
I kiss the space beside his ear, my heart flip-flopping at how he called mebaby. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that buries you alive, and all you can do is hope rescue never arrives.”
“I like that idea.”
“Being buried alive?”
“Being inundated. That’s what I want to be. Inundated with you. By you.”
Emotion moves over his face. I’m not sure how to define it, except to say that it’s good. I lift myself up and kiss the scar above his lip. “How did you get this?”
“Microform cleft lip.”
When I don’t say anything right away, Gabriel adds, “I was born with it. It was minor, no surgery needed.”
I kiss it again. “I like it.”
“I hated it when I was a kid, but I honestly don’t think I’ve noticed it in years.”
“Funny how things stop mattering after a while.” I lift my forearm. “See these white spots?” I point at my polka-dotted arm. “They’re called reverse freckles. I hate them.”
Gabriel rolls me over. He grabs one arm and studies it. “They’re barely noticeable.”
“And yet I hate them.”
His lips press against the inside of my wrist, mouth skimming my forearm. “I like them.”
“Why?”
