Page 75 of Wild Thorns

"Eli," I gasped when his fingers traced the line of my spine. "You're..."

"Too slow?" His mouth curved against my skin. "Or not slow enough?"

"I can't think."

"Good."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, and the sight of him nearly undid me. Hair disheveled, lips swollen, eyes dark and hungry. This was not the careful archivist who spoke in measured tones and adjusted his glasses when he was thinking. This was something else entirely.

Something that made heat coil low in my belly.

"You're beautiful," he said, and the words sounded almost reverent. "The way you flush when you're..."

"If you say 'aroused,' I'm walking out of this basement."

He laughed, a real laugh, warm and surprised, pulling me close again. "Flustered. I was going to say flustered."

"Sure you were."

"I was." He kissed me again, softer this time. Then harder. Then his hands found the hem of my shirt again, and this time I helped him pull it over my head.

The basement air was cool against my skin, but his hands were warm, tracing patterns across my stomach, my ribs, the lace edge of my bra.

"Is this okay?" he asked, mouth against my shoulder.

"Yes."

"And this?" His thumb brushed across the fabric, and I arched into his touch.

"Yes."

He made a sound, half groan, half something else, something rougher that raised the hair on the back of my neck. For just a moment, his grip on my waist tightened with a strength that didn't match his lean frame, and I could have sworn his eyes caught the candlelight in a way that made them look almost golden.

Then he blinked, and the moment passed.

"Serena." His voice was rougher now, strained. "I should stop."

"Why?"

"Because if I don't stop now, I'm not going to be able to."

The honesty in his voice made something twist in my chest.

I thought about Jasper.

I pulled away, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the basement. I found my shirt on the floor and pulled it on, hyperaware of his eyes on me.

"I don't understand what's happening here," I said. "I feel like I'm going crazy."

"You're not crazy."

I looked at him. At this brilliant, careful man who had just kissed me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my palm, the gesture so tender it made my chest ache.

We stood there in the dusty archive, surrounded by centuries of Thornwood secrets, and I felt a yearning in me that I didn't know was even possible.

Then guilt flooded back in, cold and familiar.