Something dark flashes in his eyes. “Someone bothering you?”
“No one even dares approach me.”
In my first year, some of the boys tried, but it never progressed to a date. The hypocrisy in our world is so blatantthat I can understand my sister’s rebellion. I guess I am no better.
“Good.”
I slap his arm playfully. “Not good. Unfair.”
“All I know is that it brought you to me,” he says, sounding unapologetic.
Isn’t that the truth? For someone who has been monitored her entire life, the moment I slipped undetected, I landed straight in a man’s bed.
I burst into laughter. “No regrets.”
He kisses me once again as if he can’t help himself, stealing the breath from my lungs and claiming more of my heart.
“I like that,” I whisper.
He glances at me, and I know I must be clearer in my speech. His brain functions just a tad differently and that’s okay. “You kissing me.”
“Never felt the need before,” he says, brows furrowing.
“Wait, what?” I gasp in utter disbelief.
He shrugs as if it’s not a big deal. “I don’t like human touch, but I liked the release after sex, so that’s why I entertained it. There’s no need for kissing.”
It means so much to me that I am the one woman he can’t resist touching and kissing. Tears well in my eyes, overwhelmed by sheer emotion.
“Was I your first kiss?”
He stares at me with an intense look. “I was your first. Will be your last. I know who the true winner is here.”
I wish he were. I wish that my first love would be my last. But in what life would that be possible? Surely not in this one. Surely not for me.
Not wanting that thought to dampen our time together, I say, “Pretty sure of yourself, Tristan.”
“Oh, Viviana, you’ll see.” Determination coats every letter.
I sigh, not knowing what to think of his words. I feelhis, claimed, chosen. The blatant possessive display should scare me. Instead, it blazes a fire through my insides, making me burn for him.
Needing more than eye contact, I move for his hand but stop. He catches my reservation, a contrite expression narrowing his gaze.
“Can I touch you?”
He shakes his head, groaning, “Never ask that again,mo run. You can touch me. You’re the exception in my life.”
If that wasn’t romantic, I don’t know what is.
I reach for his hand on the center console and link our fingers together—eager to soak in every touch, every moment we spend together. There’s a clock suspended above my head, and once it strikes, it will shift into a scythe.
As I glance up at him, he makes it worth the fall.
“How was your week? Could you sleep a bit more?” I worried about him. When I am not there, I can’t take care of him.
“Too fucking long. And no.” He puffs out a sigh of frustration.
“Couldn’t sleep without me?” I ask, wanting to bring some levity to our talk.
