Like he's the one counting now.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing down my jaw to my neck, and I tilt my head back to give him access. The brick is cold against my back but he's warm, so warm, his breath hot against my throat.
When his teeth scrape my pulse point, I gasp, and when I feel his palm against my side, all I can do is pull him back up. When his mouth reclaims mine, his hand slides highe under my shit, and all I can do is gasp.
His palm cups me through the fabric, and a whimper slips past my lips. His hand moves, cupping me more fully, his thumb doing something that makes my brain short-circuit entirely.
"You’re shaking...”
"Because—" I can't finish. Can't think. Can't do anything except feel his hand on me, his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me so completely that I can feel his heart beating against my chest.
Or maybe that's my heartbeat.
I can't tell anymore.
"Because?" His mouth finds my neck again, and this time when his teeth scrape, it's harder. Possessive. "Finish the sentence, Thea."
"Because of you," I manage. "Because you're—because I—"
His hand slides under the fabric now. Skin on skin.
I stop breathing entirely.
The cold air, the snow, the fact that we're in an alley where anyone could see—none of it matters. Nothing matters except the feeling of his hand on my bare skin, his thumb brushing over me without any barrier, the way my entire body goes taut and liquid at the same time.
"You what?" His voice is rough against my throat. "Finish it."
But I can't finish the sentence because his thumb is circling now, slow and deliberate, and every coherent thought I've ever had evaporates.
"This," he says quietly, "is not a phase."
His thumb circles again, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would definitely carry in this quiet alley.
"This—" He does it again, firmer this time. "—is not a story."
Again. My hands fist harder in his jacket, and I'm grateful for the brick wall behind me because my legs have stopped working properly.
"This is—" His voice drops even lower. "This is me, not being able to watch you laugh with another man. Not being able to watch you touch his arm. Not being able to stand the thought that he makes you feel easy when I make you feel—" He stops. "What do I make you feel?"
"Too much." The words come out broken, gasping. "You make me feel too much."
"Good." His hand moves, and I gasp. "Because I feel too much too. I feel—" He stops again, and I can hear the frustration in his voice, the way he's struggling for words. "I do not have words for what I feel."
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing whatever sound I was about to make. His hand keeps moving, keeps touching me in ways that make me shake, make my hands fist in his jacket so hard I'm probably leaving permanent wrinkles, make me forget every reason this is a bad idea.
The snow is falling harder now. I can feel it on my face, cold against my flushed skin. But Santino is warm, his body pressed against mine, one hand in my hair and the other under my shirt, and I'm burning up from the inside out.
My breathing is coming faster now, shallower, and he notices. Of course he notices. He notices everything about me.
His hand moves with more purpose now, more intent, like he's reading my body the way he probably reads a track before a race—learning the curves, finding the rhythm.
"Tell me—" His voice is rough. Strained. "Tell me you understand now."
"I...”
His hand moves faster, more deliberate, and I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. "That you are not invisible. That when I am here—" Another movement, his thumb pressing exactly where I need it. "—with you—" Again. "—this is the only place I want to be."
I'm shaking now. Really shaking. Every nerve ending on fire, every thought reduced to the feeling of his hand on me, the tasteof his mouth when he kisses me again, the solid weight of his body keeping me upright against the brick.
