She shakes her head. She’s not sure she wants to think about it again, the feeling she had as he went over the cliff. The certainty that something awful was about to happen.
‘I didn’t really think it through,’ he continues.
‘No,’ she agrees. ‘I got that.’ Then again, she wasn’t thinking too clearly when she kissed him, either. She bites her lip. ‘Your dad said …’ She trails off, not sure if she’s crossing some sort of line here. But they’ve always been able to talk to each other, haven’t they? ‘He said that maybe you do all this stuff because you don’t want to be like him.’
He contemplates her. ‘Maybe that’s true.’ She doesn’t know why she’s surprised how easily he admits it to her. He’s not exactly a half-truths kind of guy, is he?
He lets go of her arms, lifting a hand to run it through his towel-dried hair. As he does, his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of hard, toned muscle beneath. She tries not to look. Tries not to remember what it was like to have her hands there earlier today.
‘It’s just,’ he says, ‘do you ever get the feeling that life is … I don’t know. Fragile? Like it could be taken from you at any moment?’ She nods slowly. ‘Right, so I guess I’m just trying to make sure I have all the best experiences before that happens.’
She hesitates, then nods again. ‘I think I get that.’ She’s carried it with her, that innate feeling he’s talking about, since Chloe. Maybe even before that, because of something on a far more subconscious level. Because a part of her remembers death in her previous lives. For her, it presents differently – as the need to be cautious, protect herself, stay healthy. So she doesn’t necessarily agree with how he deals with it, that feeling. But she does understand it.
He’s watching her as he places his hands either side of the counter and leans in slowly – a question. It is a slow sinking this time, when he kisses her. His nose skates down hers, one hand moves to cup her neck, his thumb tracing a small circle there. Her skin goes hot and needy from the brush of his tongue against hers. A stupid gasp escapes her as his teeth catch her bottom lip, and he moves closer to her at the sound, pressing her against the counter. Her spine arches, every muscle in her stomach trying to draw closer to his.
He moves his attention to her throat, and she groans, her fingers digging into his back. With the sound of it, he hoists her up again, sitting her on the kitchen counter in a move that sends a breathless laugh through her. A laugh that is cut off as his hands travel up her calves, to her thighs, underneath the dress she’s wearing. His gaze meets hers, sparking as he bends down to kiss behind her knee, higher up on her thigh. Her breath is uneven, her mind on fire.
But still she manages to think. ‘Wait,’ she says, her breath hitching. He pauses, but keeps his hands on her legs, like he’s about to spread them. The space between her thighs heats. But she doesn’t feel embarrassed. His eyes are practically black, and the sight of that – of knowing he wants this just as much as she does – sends a thrill tumbling through her.
‘Wait?’ he asks. And he would, she knows. He’d stop.
‘I just mean … We can’t have sex in the kitchen.’
His mouth pulls up into that crooked smile she loves. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, it’s not our kitchen for one.’
His smile deepens and he steps in closer, right between her thighs. She slams her hands up to his chest to stop him. He places his own hands over them. ‘And what about dinner?’ she asks, almost a squeak.
His smile changes, becomes something different. Hungrier. He reaches around her to switch off the stove. And despite the fact that his arm barely brushes her side, her nipples pinch in anticipation.
‘Later,’ he murmurs. A promise of some kind.
Then he lifts her, as easily as he did on the beach, and quite literallycarriesher to the bedroom.
‘How are you doing this?’ she laughs. ‘I’m not that light.’
He grins. ‘You’re not that heavy, either.’
She doesn’t even notice which bedroom they’re in, couldn’t tell you if the walls were blue or green, if the decor was modern or old-fashioned. All she can concentrate on is the feeling of his hands on her thighs, and the way he is looking at her – a way that makes her want to touch him.
He sits her gently on the end of the king-sized bed, and draws down the strap of her dress, kissing her shoulder. Her whole body buzzes at the feeling of his lips on her bare skin.
She drags her fingers through his hair as his own hands travel up, under her dress, bunching it at the waist. She moves her hands to his long, lean torso, tugs at his T-shirt. He’s grinning as he helps her take it off. She acts on instinct, leaning in to lick a column up his core, over muscles that feel tight enough to snap. He shudders, and she loves it, the feeling of power that flows through her.
‘Fuck, Lissa,’ he hisses out. And he is pushing her back, lifting her dress up and off her, his thumb sweeping the outside curve of her breast. Every nerve ending in her body lights up. She raises her hips, grinding them against his while her heart pounds into his urgent touch.
She hears the hiss of his belt buckle and sits, helping him out of his jeans. There is no awkward fumbling, no hesitation. She knows dimly that this is not how the first time with someone is supposed to feel, but she closes her eyes, giving in to sensation as he pushes her back onto the bed, his fingers travelling up her inner thighs, electricity pulsing in their wake.
Because tonight, she doesn’t want worry and the what-ifs to eat away at her until there is nothing left. She wants to feel strong and needed and powerful – and she does, with him.
‘Fuck, Lissa,’ he says again, slipping one finger inside her. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.’
Her hips move against him even as she reaches between them, thrilling at the feeling of him in her hand. His head bows into her shoulder and he kisses her collarbone as his fingers move inside her, thumb circling around her clit. She whimpers as the pressure inside her builds, her muscles clenching. And when his thumb presses down, she cries out as pleasure skitters down her spine, the first wave of release tearing through her.
His eyes are on hers, black, as he watches her. She breathes his name, not sure what she means by it, as she takes him and guides him into her, groaning at the weight of him on her. She runs her hands down his back, and as he begins to move inside her, it’s like her edges seem to blur.
‘Look at me, Liss,’ he murmurs.
