“I can still feel it,” I whisper. “The cold. I can’t get it out.”
His gaze sharpens. He understands. He knows this feeling—the crash after survival. The desperate, animalistic need to prove that the heart is still beating.
“Come here,” he says softly.
I collapse into him.
I press my chest against his uninjured side, bury my face in the crook of his neck, and inhale sharply, filling my lungs with the scent of him. Iron, salt, smoke, and the sweat of a man who has fought for his life.
“Make it go away,” I beg, clutching his right shoulder. “Cassian, please. Make me forget.”
He is drained, bleeding, and running on nothing but fumes. An exhausted tremor vibrates through his muscles, his body trying to shut down. But at the desperate break in my voice, a dark, possessive spark flares in his heavy eyes, dragging him back from the edge.
His arm slides up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair, gripping the roots tight enough to sting. His skin is clammy with the lingering edge of shock, but he forces his grip to be absolute iron. He pulls my head back, forcing me to look at him.
“I’ll make you forget everything but me,” he vows.
He kisses me hard.
He kisses me like he’s trying to breathe for me, devouring my panic and replacing it with his own dark fire. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding, rough, tasting me like he’s starving and I’m the only sustenance left in the world.
I kiss him back with everything I have. I bite his lower lip, tasting blood. I claw at his back, needing to feel the muscle shift under my skin. I need to feel him solid and real and here.
He groans against my mouth.
He shifts, trying to pull me closer, but the sudden movement yanks the torn muscle in his chest. He winces, breaking the kiss. His jaw locks tight as his left side protests. His breathing is already turning harsh.
“Careful,” I whisper, pulling back slightly. “Your shoulder.”
“I don’t care about my shoulder,” he pants, his eyes dark and stripped of restraint. “Touch me. Just touch me.”
He curses softly, a rough sound of surrender.
His hand drops to the hem of my sweater. The gray wool ruined by the night, stiff with dried blood. He bunches the fabric in his fist.
“Take it off,” he growls. “I want to see you.”
I pull the sweater over my head, ripping it free of my arms, and throw it to the floor. It hits the concrete like it never mattered.
I’m wearing only a black tank top underneath. The air in the bunker is cool, goosebumps rising on my arms, but Cassian’s gaze is heavy and direct, scorching my skin.
He reaches out. His thumb traces the line of my collarbone, right over my racing pulse. His skin is rough, calloused, creating a friction that makes my heart pound against my throat.
He hooks his finger under the strap of my top and slides it down. Then the other. He tugs the fabric down until it pools at my waist, leaving my breasts bare to him. My nipples instantly tighten, peaking under his stare.
“Mine,” he rasps.
He leans forward and presses his mouth to my chest.
I freeze for a second and gasp, arching into him. His lips are hot, wet. He bites gently at the curve of my collarbone, marking me, replacing the memory of death with the sharp sensation of his teeth. He trails his mouth down, closing his lips over my nipple, sucking hard.
“Cassian,” I moan, my hips rocking instinctively against his leg.
I need more. The stiff denim feels like a cage.
I pull back, gasping for air. I reach down, shoving the boots off my heels and letting them hit the concrete. My hands drop to the waistband of my jeans.
I pop the metal button and shove the denim down my thighs, kicking free of the pants until I’m wearing nothing but lace panties.
