"I can't." My voice cracks. "I can't tell you that because it would be a lie."
"Then what do you want?"
Everything. I want everything. I want his hands on me, his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me in the darkness. I want to stop thinking about duty and expectations and what I'm supposed to do. I want to feel something real, something true,something that's mine and not dictated by my father or Thad or anyone else.
I want him.
I want to know what it feels like to have someone I chose touch me. To feel what I’ll never get another chance to experience in my life, after this.
I came to New York to live my life for two years. And this feels like living. It feels like what life is supposed to be about.
Like I’m going to die when I leave here, and I should take advantage of this while I have the chance.
"Savannah." His hand tightens on mine. "Tell me what you want."
"You," I whisper. "I want you."
The words are barely out of my mouth before his hand drops to my hip, spinning me so that my back is against one of the stacks, and he’s kissing me.
It's nothing like kissing Thad. Nothing like the demanding, possessive kisses I've endured for the past year. This is heat and hunger and desperate need. Romeo kisses me like he's been starving for it, like he's been holding back for weeks and can't anymore. His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back, and I arch against him, my fingers clutching at his shirt. The darkness makes everything more intense—I can't see him, can only feel him, taste him, hear the rough sound of his breathing.
"God," he breathes against my mouth. "I've wanted this for so long."
“Me too,” I gasp. His tongue sweeps over my lower lip, and I let out a soft whimpering sound that I don’t recognize as coming from me. “Romeo?—”
“Shh.” He presses his mouth to mine again, quieting me as he presses me harder against the bookshelf. I can feel how much he wants me. The evidence of his desire is hard against my hip, andinstead of being frightened, I'm thrilled. Empowered. Desperate for more.
And okay… maybe a little frightened too, because he feels so big. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let it get that far…
His mouth moves to my neck, and I gasp, my head falling back against the books. No one has ever kissed me like this. No one has ever made me feel like this—like I'm burning alive, like I need more, like I might die if he stops.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my skin. "Tell me this is too much, too fast?—"
"Don't stop." My hands are in his hair now, holding him to me. "Please don't stop."
It feels too good. I want his mouth on mine again, and at the same time, I want him to keep it on my throat, sliding up and down, his teeth nipping at my skin, at my earlobe, dropping to my collarbone to lick a hot line against my skin. It’s as if he wants to devour me, as if he can’t get enough of me. I feel like I’m dying and coming to life at the same time.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, and then he's gathering my skirt, pulling it up slowly, giving me time to object. But I don't. I can't. I'm too far gone, too desperate for his touch. When his hand slides between my thighs, I make a sound I've never made before—something between a gasp and a moan. He freezes.
"Is this okay?" His voice is rough, strained. I’ve never heard a man make a sound like that before… certainly not because of me. "Tell me if this is okay."
"Yes." I can feel myself trembling, my whole body alive with sensation. "Yes, it's okay."
It’s not. Nothing about this should be okay. I’m not his, and I never can be… but here in the dark, with the lightning lighting us up every few minutes the way he’s lighting me up inside, the silence all around us that’s only broken by breath and moans, itfeels like I could be. Like I’m not really me, and he’s not really him, and we can be someone else, just for a little while.
People who might not have different pasts or futures, but could have a different present, just for now.
His fingers find the edge of my underwear. They slip underneath, gliding over the soft surface of my outer folds, and I understand for the first time what all the fuss is about. What people mean when they talk about desire, about need, about pleasure.
I feel like I’ll die if he doesn’t stop, and like I’ll die if he does. My hips arch into his hand, and he lets out a ragged groan.
"You're so wet," he breathes, something that sounds almost like awe in his voice… for me. "So perfect."
I should be embarrassed. I should be ashamed. But I'm not. I'm just desperate for more. His fingertips dip between my folds, and I hear him let out a hiss of breath between his teeth as they glide over my sensitive, intimate flesh.
“Tell me no one has ever done this to you before,” he growls, his lips against my ear as his fingers move back and forth slowly, just shy of my clit. “Tell me I’m the first man to touch you like this.”
“You are.” My voice comes out weak, ineffectual, and I grip at his upper arm to hold myself steady.
