Page 108 of River & Rue

Sliding my hands to his shoulders, I rise onto my toes.

“Shut up, River.”

I brush my lips lightly against his. The sound he makes lights every nerve in my body—hope and shock wrapped in shining threads of desire. Hooking an arm around his neck, I pull myself closer and kiss him fully, taking his soft lips how I’ve always wanted to. Like he’s mine.

River lets me set the pace, his body strung tight with restraint as I savor him. I sip and taste, inhaling his tender replies.

The first languorous stroke of my tongue against his is a revelation.

For him, it’s a breaking point.

I’m claimed by his hands first, one on my ass pulling me tight to his body, the other beneath my ponytail to angle my head. There’s a brief pause. A breath in which he looks down at me with possessive promise.

Then his lips lay claim to mine.

Thorough and commanding, reverent and ravenous, River kisses me like he’s consuming a feast rather than a rushed appetizer. I’m only peripherally aware of him lifting me and sitting on the stump, of my legs wrapping around him, of the line of hard heat against my inner thigh. My hips move restlessly and futilely, his grip keeping me from finding friction. But I barely notice that, either, because his mouth owns my senses so completely. The world could end around us, and I’d kiss him with my last breath.

Reality returns in stages—a breeze triggering a shiver, a cramp in my calf from holding him so tightly, pangs of thirst and hunger.

A slow, lascivious swirl of River’s tongue becomes a lingering kiss. My mouth tingles in the cold air as he withdraws to kiss my cheek, my temple, and the bridge of my nose.

I open my eyes.

The sky is moonless, a swath of spilled ink strewn with winking stars. Everything beyond the reach of the fire is veiled in unrelenting black.

River’s eyes are molten gold, brimming with an emotion too vast to name.

He whispers, “Do you feel it?”

“Yes,” I whisper back.

It’s everywhere.

Magic.

37

rue

​. . .​

the crisis point

My eyes open to darkness and a soothing song of crickets, frogs, and trickling water. A hint of silvery moonlight breaches the nylon walls of the tent, illuminating River’s face just inches from mine. He’s passed out, the hood of his sleeping bag framing his face, eyelashes fluttering with dreams.

I fell asleep with him against my back, as close as possible with the insulation between us. At some point, I rolled away and ended up near a wall. He must have followed me, and I smile as I picture him wriggling after me like a worm.

The longer I stare at his peaceful face, the heavier my eyelids grow. Yawning, I snuggle closer to him and begin drifting back to sleep.

Then an internal alarm blares, jacking my heart rate and wrenching me to fully alert. Fine hairs lift all over my body when I realize what triggered the alarm: complete silence. The crickets and frogs have stopped singing.

Utterly still, I focus beyond the gurgle of the creek and the soft rush of River’s exhales. I listen so hard the silence begins to breathe.

No.

Something else, something big, is breathing outside the tent.

Whatever it is moves in near-silence, but the closer it comes, the more I discern. Shuffling. Scraping. Dry sweeping. The muted crunch of pine needles and dirt. A muffled grunt and a heavy snort.