His skin is hot. So is mine. Under the blankets with him like this for hours, I could be mistaken for a living thing.
“Simon, Simon.”
He’s biting my neck, and I’m not biting his—but I am kissing him. I’m kissing his hair, his ear. I’m pulling up his shirt. “I love you,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Baz, I need—”
“Yes.”
“I can’t—” He’s pushing too hard to kiss. He’s holding too hard to touch.
I wrench my head back. “Simon, let me—”
He won’t let me pull away. His head is still in my neck. He’s panting. “Baz, I can’t—I need you.”
I’m kissing his cheek. My fangs are out, I can’t care. “Simon,” I slur, “my darling, my love . . .”
“I can’t . . .breathe,” he says. “It isn’t enough—It’s too much—I can’t—”
He’s crying. And clinging to me. Arms. Legs. Wings. Tail. All of him trembling.
I’m breathless, too, but in the wrong way now—the wind has changed. Hopefully it only just happened. Hopefully I didn’t misinterpret every moment of this moment.
“Simon,” I say, my hands in the back of his hair. “My darling. My love. It’s all right.”
“I can’t,” he sobs.
“I know,” I say, stroking him. “It’s all right.
I’m here.”
“I can’t.”
“I’m here.”
“Baz . . .”
“I’m here, love.”
19
SIMON
It’s been a while since either of us said anything.
It’s been a while since I stopped blubbering.
As soon as I loosened my panic-hold on Baz, he pulled away from me a bit. But he’s still here. Lying quietly on one of my wings. Probably thinking about how much sex he could be having if he were with literally anyone other than me.
I mean, have a look at him—he’s the most fuckable person alive. Or otherwise.
I’mthe problem. As is always true, in literally every situation. It’s me.
I’ve been here before. Wanting to crawl out of my skin and leave myself for dead after a miserable attempt to do more than kiss. What I’d normally do now is stand up and walk out of the room. Then Baz would leave the flat, not wanting to embarrass me further, nor to dwell on the fact that he’s stuck with me.
But he can’t leave—this is his flat. And if I leave, it would be in direct violation of the promise I madenotto leave. Or not to give up. Or whatever.
Baz sighs. I know all his sighs; I lived with them for eight years. This one means:Simon Snow is a chronic pain in my neck.
