I know that stillness now. It is not calm. It is control with its teeth bared.
“Talia.”
“My name is still not a warning label.”
“It is when you wake me up looking like that.”
“Like what?”
His hand tightens on my hip.
“Like you want to be ruined again.”
My breath catches.
The red light flickers across his face, turning him into shadow and hard angles and hunger.
I should be embarrassed.
I am embarrassed.
I am also apparently very, very bad at self-preservation.
I slide my hand to his chest. His skin is hot beneath my palm, scarred and solid. His heart beats slow.
Steady.
“You said forever,” I whisper.
“I did.”
“Then I can want you again.”
His eyes go darker. “You can want anything.”
“Good.”
I move closer.
His hand catches my wrist before I can reach lower. Not hard. Just enough to stop me.
“Careful.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You need to hear it a lot.”
“I’m not going to break.”
“No.” His thumb brushes over my pulse. “But you’re sore, and I’m not taking you again tonight.”
I freeze.
Oh.
Something hot and disappointed twists low in my stomach, followed immediately by the kind of mortification that makes a woman want to fake her own death and start over in another country.
“Right,” I say, pulling back. “Of course. Totally fine. Sensible, actually. Big fan of sensible decisions at three in the morning.”
