Baz’s fingers uncurl, her palm warm against my chest.
“Dorian,” she murmurs. Then her perfectly arched little brows furrow with pain. “Ow. My hands hurt.”
“I’ll get you more painkillers.” Gently I ease her off me, onto the pillows. I rise from the bed and walk to the bag on the dresser, where I left the supplies I bought.
“It’s not fair for you to be naked,” she mumbles. “You’re too damn gorgeous.”
I turn to smile at her, but the sight of her body is like a gut punch, all the breath knocked out of me. I can find the beauty in almost any human body, of any gender, but her body affects me in a way I can’t quite define. Before I met her, if I could have had women custom-made for my pleasure, none of them would havelooked like her. But now it’s as if my very DNA has changed, been recoded to find her unequivocally the most beautiful thing in the universe.
“What?” Baz raises her eyebrows, looking alarmed. “Why are you staring like that? Do I look awful?”
I shouldn’t have slept with you. It has changed everything.
I grit my teeth, because that’s not how I react to a hookup. It’s pleasure, pure and simple. An instinct, a need, a pastime. I’m no simpering rom-com hero. I don’t do whateverthisis.
“You look fine,” I bite out and turn my back to her, rummaging for the pills. Maybe I’ll take a handful. They’re nothing good, though—just weak crap off the shelf.
I toss her the bottle, trying to ignore the pang in my heart when she catches it between bandaged hands.
“I’m going to smoke.” I pull on my boxers and shorts from yesterday. They’re slightly sandy but dry. Snatching my lighter and a pack of cigarettes, I shove back the curtains, haul the sliding door open, and escape to the balcony.
The smooth, papery roll of the cigarette between my fingers, the snick and burr of the lighter, warmth spreading through my lungs as I inhale—it’s a comforting ritual.
Everything is the same.
“Dorian.” Her voice behind me, and my heart jolts, a thrill of frantic pleasure shooting through my chest.
Not the same.
I close my eyes. Breathe in, then out, slowly and deeply.
“What?” I ask, glancing at her.
She’s wrapped in a sheet, her fingers raking her hair over one shoulder, looking damn adorable. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” It comes out as a growl, so I try to lighten my tone. “I’m anasshole in the morning sometimes. When I’m done with this, we’ll get some breakfast and coffee before we head back.”
“Okay.”
And then she reaches up and squeezes my shoulder lightly before going back inside.
Phantom prints remain on my skin, burning lines where her fingers were.
I take a hard, frenzied pull at the cigarette.
This can’t be happening.
It’s not possible.
I’ve pushed aside my feelings for Baz so many times… They should be dead for good. There shouldn’t be anything left inside me that can feel this deeply. Why the hell do I have to feel this way for the only person in the world who can save me? The person against whom, if she doesn’t relent, I will have to commit the greatest of all my sins?
Lloyd was right. I can’t love.
At best, I’m capable of an idle fascination, a fragile crush, or a narcissistic obsession.
But if this pull toward Baz isthat—if it’s love, and I have to destroy it—what will become of me?
22
