Page 33 of What We Burn

She tilts her head up. In the dark, her eyes catch the moonlight—gray and steady and looking at me with something that isn’t forgiveness because there’s nothing to forgive. It’s need. Simple, honest, terrifying need.

“Stop being sorry,” she says. “Just be here.”

She kisses me.

It’s soft. Nothing like our usual heat. This is gentle and direct, lips barely parted. I freeze for a split second because I don’t want to take a shred more than she’s willing to give.

She hums, and the tip of her tongue teases the seam of my lips. The sound goes straight to my cock, and I kiss her back. Controlled. Gentle. My hand shifting to her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. She tenses slightly, and I soften my grip, shifting my hand to the back of her head to avoid touching her neck.

“Holden.” She sinks into me, her thigh riding higher, her cold toes sliding underneath the cuff of my jeans at my ankle. Her hand slides from my chest to my neck, fingers curling into the hair at my nape, and she pulls me closer with a soft sound that goes straight through me.

I deepen the kiss and her mouth parts, urgent, starved, and she gives another greedy little moan. It vibrates against my lips and my control shudders. Fingers tightening in her hair, I tilt her head and kiss her with more purpose.

For the first time since the rope, I let myself want, let myself feel. Her tongue licks into my mouth and she tastes like mint and sleep and, God, her. A taste I’ve somehow built an addiction to.

“Fuck, wildcat.”

The words slip out rough, my voice gravel from exhaustion and want. She presses closer, her body molding to mine, soft curves against hard lines, and I feel her heartbeat hammering through her shirt. It’s fast—too fast—and I pull back, just enough to search her face in the dim light.

“We should stop,” I murmur, my thumb brushing her lower lip.

She shakes her head. “I want this.” Her voice is still raspy, but there’s steel underneath, that stubborn fire I love. She shifts, throwing one leg over mine, straddling me slowly, carefully, like she’s testing her own limits. The weight of her settles on my hips, and my cock twitches, already hard just from the kiss. “I need to feel like me again, Holden. Like you still want me. All of me—even the broken parts.”

“You’re not broken.” I slide my hands up her thighs, under the hem of her shirt, gripping her hips gently. No pressure. No demands. “You’re healing. And I want you more than ever. Fuck, wildcat. You have no idea how badly I want you. But I also don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” She leans down, her hair falling like a curtain around us, and kisses me again, her tongue sweeping in, tasting me like she’s reclaiming a piece I took. Her hands roam my chest, fingers slipping under my shirt, tracing the lines of muscle and ink. “Don’t hold back. Please, Holden. I need you.”

I groan into her mouth, my control fraying. I keep it slow, my palms gliding up her sides, lifting her shirt inch by inch, exposing the soft skin of her stomach, her ribs until I lift it over her head and toss it aside. Her breasts are bare, nipples hardening in the cool air. I cup one gently, thumb circling the peak without pinching, drawing a soft gasp from her.

She arches into my hand like a cat seeking warmth, her teeth catching my bottom lip, worrying it until I’m tempted to bite her back. Her hips roll against me and she’s making these little noises—half gasp, half whimper—that undo my logic cell by cell.

I want to slide her onto her back, to take control the way I always have with her, but I don’t. I let her stay on top, let her set the pace, keep my hands open and visible on her body. No surprise pressure, no sudden grabs—nothing to dredge up the memory of the rope, the burning, the terror.

But she takes my wrist and starts walking my hand up—over her ribs, over her breastbone, toward her throat.

My stomach drops. I stop her an inch short, curl her fingers into mine, and put her hand back down on my chest where I can hold it.

Her gaze holds steady, pupils blown wide, lips wet and parted. She’s not afraid.

She’s fucking daring me.

I kiss her instead. It’s an answer and we both know it isn’t the one she asked for.

“So fucking beautiful, wildcat.”

I slide my free hand down, palming her thigh, my fingers digging in to feel the heat of her skin. She grinds against me, the pressure of her center lining up perfectly with my cock. The friction hurts, in a good way, my jeans suddenly too tight and her hips insistent. I press up to meet her, letting her set the pace, my mouth finding her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the soft indent above her breast. I kiss every inch, savoring each sound she makes, the rhythm of her breath going ragged.

She rocks forward, and her hand finds the front of my jeans.

Her fingers fumble with the button, popping it open, and she tugs at the zipper with a needy whine. “Holden—inside me. Please. I need you now.”

Fuck, the desperation in her voice nearly breaks me. I grab her wrist gently, stopping her. “I’ll give it to you, wildcat—promise. But first, I need to taste you. Missing that sweet pussy grinding on my face, making me drown in you.”

Her breath hitches, eyes darkening with want. “Yes—God, yes.”

I flip her onto her back, settling her against the pillows. She watches me with heavy-lidded eyes as I sit up, yanking my shirt over my head and tossing it aside. The cool air hits my skin, but her gaze burns hotter, tracing the lines of my chest, the ink she’s mapped so many times.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, wildcat,” I murmur, leaning down to kiss her throat—soft, open-mouthed presses along the faded bruises, my tongue darting out to lick the tender skin. She gasps, arching up, her hands fisting the sheets. “So damn amazing. I love every inch of you. So fucking much.”