He blinked. "Yes?"
"Yes." I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone, marveling at the way his breath hitched. "Coffee sounds good."
The drive to his apartment took fifteen minutes that felt like hours. I followed his taillights through streets I didn't recognize, my hands steady on the wheel even as my heart hammeredagainst my ribs. This was happening. Whatever this was—it was actually happening.
His apartment was small. A studio, really, tucked into the third floor of a building that had seen better decades. But it was clean, organized in a way that spoke to someone who'd learned to make the most of limited space. Medical textbooks lined a shelf above the tiny kitchen counter. A couch faced a television that looked older than most of the rookies on the team.
"It's not much," Cinder said, something defensive creeping into his voice as he hung up his jacket. "I know it's—"
"It's yours," I interrupted. "That's what matters."
He stared at me for a moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then he laughed, soft and wondering. "You really mean that, don't you?"
"I really do."
He moved toward the kitchen—a few steps, really, given the size of the space—and started pulling out mugs. "Coffee, then. I have—" He stopped, hands braced on the counter, his back to me. "I don't actually want coffee."
"Okay."
"I want—" He turned, and the look on his face stole my breath. Vulnerable. Wanting. Terrified in a way that made my dragon surge forward with the need to protect. "I want you. I know we said slow, and I know this is probably a terrible idea, but I can't stop thinking about—"
I crossed the distance between us in two strides and kissed him.
This wasn't like the parking lot. This was hunger, finally unleashed. His back hit the counter, and he made a sound against my mouth—surprised, desperate—as his hands fisted in my Henley and pulled me closer.
"Taz—" He gasped when I moved to his throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the line of his pulse. "God, you're so cold, it's—"
"Too much?" I pulled back immediately, terror spiking through the haze of want.
"No." His hands tightened, keeping me close. "No, it's—it feels good. Different. Like—" He shuddered as I traced my tongue along his collarbone. "Like it’s clean. It doesn't make me cold if that makes sense. It's like I register it, but it doesn't affect me."
The words broke something loose inside me. I'd spent years convinced my cold would only ever hurt, only ever damage. And here he was, pressing against me.
"Bedroom," I managed against his skin. "Unless you want—"
"Bedroom," he agreed breathlessly. "Definitely bedroom."
It was barely five steps away, separated from the main space by a half-wall that served as a headboard. The bed was made with military precision, sheets tucked tight, and I had approximately two seconds to appreciate that before Cinder was pulling his sweater over his head and my brain short-circuited entirely.
He was beautiful. Lean muscle under pale skin, a scattering of freckles across his shoulders I hadn't expected. A scar on his left side, old and faded. I wanted to map every inch of him.
"You're staring," he said, something self-conscious creeping into his voice.
"You're worth staring at."
His laugh was shaky. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
He answered by reaching for my shirt, tugging it over my head with hands that trembled slightly. When his palms pressed flat against my chest, he sucked in a sharp breath.
"You really are freezing," he murmured, but he didn't pull away. His fingers traced patterns across my skin, leaving trailsof warmth in their wake. Walls crumbling, defenses falling, he surged up and kissed me again, and this time there was nothing tentative about it.
We fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, mouths still connected, hands everywhere. I worked his jeans open while he struggled with my belt, both of us too desperate for finesse. When I finally got my hand around him, he arched off the mattress with a sound that made my dragon roar in triumph.
"Fuck—Taz—" His head fell back, throat exposed, and I couldn't resist pressing my cold lips there, feeling his pulse hammer against my mouth. "That's—God, your hands are… it's—"
"Good or bad?"
