Fuck—fuck—fuck—
Midnight memories pummel me: him dragging me flush with his rock-solid chest; me clawing at him, tangling us together; falling back asleep to the sound of his heart beating safely against me.
It wasn’t a dream. It was real.
He’s here, in bed with me. Cuddling me. Letting me use him like a mattress.
My dome bears a massive cleft straight through the middle, barely visible beneath everything that’s spilled out of it—those raw, tender vines of relief I’ve been tucking and stuffing beneath the surface no longer vines but aforest.
They’ve used my spine as a ladder to weave around my ribs so tight there’s no bone left in sight, then stitched my heart into a tidy lump that makes me feel so beautifully whole. They’ve smothered every other emotion in sight, sprouting thousands of little buds that look like they’re just about to split their heads and bloom.
I squeeze my stinging eyes shut, releasing a slip of tears.
I thought my home was a castle sitting on the edge of a cliff, looking over a bay that’s shaped like a monster bit the shore. I thought my home was a tower poked through the clouds, with my rocks and my paints and my plants. But I’d happily live right here for the rest of eternity and never feel another pang of homesickness. It’s a realization that just makes more tears slip from my scrunched-up eyes.
Because this moment—this beautiful, perfect moment—is stolen.
Not mine.
His temperature snaps to cold so fast I gasp, wondering if I just imagined him warm in my half-asleep state.
Must be it.
I tune into his slow and steady breaths …
I need to get up. To wiggle out of his hold before I do something stupid, like kiss him awake. Like reach back and take his hand, urge it farther down my spine, between—
Get up, Orlaith.
I open my eyes, lift my head the slightest amount, look straight into his silver eyes, and freeze.
My heartwhumpsinto my stomach, a small, choked sound slipping free as I hold that paralyzing stare.
His hair is mussed from sleep, brows pinched, mouth serious, a tension strung between us so tight I’m certain it could shatter like splitting glass.
The world could combust right now and I wouldn’t notice.
His throat works, and I whimper as his hand comes up to brush the tears from my cheek. I’m too drunk on the moment not to lean into his touch. To close my eyes and nuzzle his hand—stealing a sip of serenity because I’m greedy.
Happy.
Bereft.
Because I’m just about to let him go and blow him back to the wind.
I swallow, force myself to open my eyes. He doesn’t stop me from sitting up, climbing off him. Doesn’t shift a muscle until my feet kiss the floorboards.
His hand latches onto my wrist, and in a few swift motions he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with me straddling his lap—forehead to forehead, breathing hot and heavy, his fingers delving into my hair that’s a mess of wild, unruly waves around my face.
I can feel his manhood hard and heavy between us, resting against my belly.
I thread my hands through his beard so as to set some barrier between us … partially. But also because I want to touch him.
Feel him.
Love him.
His body goes entirely still as I brush my lips against his, softer than the beat of a butterfly’s wing. Because I’m a thief, stealing little trinkets, stashing them in my chest for when feast becomes famine. For when we’re not stuffed into such a small space with too much ofhimand no room to breathe.
