I move slowly across the kitchen, steps quiet against the tile. She doesn’t notice—not at first—still too wrapped up in the sound of her own voice as she continues to talk her way out of her nervousness. Like if she keeps talking, she won’t have tofeelwhat’s happening.
“Because I’m a really light sleeper and that would be a disaster. But if you are, it’s fine, they make these really soft earplugs for sleeping that are kind of amazing and?—”
I place my hands on either side of her hips, palms flat against the edge of the counter, caging her in without touching her too closely. I can feel her inhale sharply, her back going stiff. She freezes, the biscuit cutter still in her hand, hovering above the dough.
Her voice dies on her tongue. I lean in, my breath brushing the shell of her ear.
“You talk too much when you’re nervous,” I murmur.
I shift just enough to keep her from feeling the hard line straining against my sweats, forcing my hips back even as every part of me wants to press into her, anchor myself to her skin.
She clears her throat and starts to pick the biscuits out of the dough and drop them onto the sheet with parchment paper on them.
“I am not nervous,” she says, her voice shaky as she drops the second to last biscuit on the tray.
“Oh, and when you ran away last night right after they said we had to get married, what do you call that?” I tease, my voice low and coaxing as she finally turns in the small cage of my arms.
Her hazel eyes find mine, sharp and narrowing, but there’s a glimmer of heat in them that matches the pulse starting to thrum in my veins. Her lips purse, stubborn.
“I didn’t run,” she says at last, and the air between us shifts. “I went to the privacy of a room to process it all.”
“No,” I murmur, dipping closer, my body a breath from hers. “You went to my room. And you hid from me.”
She tips her head up, just enough that our noses brush. The faintest contact, but it sparks like friction. “I remember,” she says, voice tight, “you told me to avoid you. Specifically. In this exact position.”
Her hands press into the counter behind her, as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She’s trying so hard not to touch me.
“And I,” I whisper, letting my lips trail just close enough that the edge of her ear catches the ghost of my breath, “remember you didn’t listen very well.”
A tremor runs through her, so small I feel it more than I see it.
“I did,” she whispers back, but it’s too soft to sound like conviction.
I pull back just enough to see her face. We’re so close our breaths mix, shallow and uneven.
“Really?” My voice drops to something lower, something rough. “And how exactly did you manage that, Moya?”
“I—I dated Jordan,” she blurts, the words rushed and fragile. Her eyes flicker everywhere—over my mouth, my throat, my shoulders—but never settle on mine.
“Three months,” I say, slow, savoring the way the number twists in my mouth. “That’s hardly dating.”
“He dances,” she fires back, but the protest comes out thin.
“He does.”
“Y-you told me?—”
I tilt my head, close enough now that the tip of my nose skims her cheek, forcing her to feel the smile that’s curling across my lips. “And you follow directions so well, Moya.”
Her eyes lock with mine, the pupils so dilated as she searches my gaze for something, anything that will clue her in to what is truly going on in my mind. I don’t want her to know I still want to make her cry. I still want to see her body shiver. I still want to bite her lip until she bleeds. I want her fear to run through her in waves. I want what she refuses to give anyone else, her worst.
“W-what is that supposed to mean, Alek?” She whispers, her voice so low I can barely hear it.
“It means exactly what I said, Moya.”
My voice is low, a rasp I can’t disguise as I slide my hand to the back of her head. My fingers sink into her curls, silken and warm against my knuckles, and I guide her chin up until there’s nowhere for her to look but at me.
“I told you to run,” I murmur, eyes locked on hers, “and like the reckless, defiant girl you are… you ran just far enough for me to catch up.”
