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His grasp on my hand loosens, but I’m not ready to give him up yet. I’m not ready for him to leave me in the headspace that I hate. That I know he hates. Because he’s right—I do need someone right now.
And as much as that applies to me, it applies even more to him.
The tips of my fingers slip down his palm and snag at the sleeve at his wrist, skin brushing skin. His eyelids flicker, and I watch the thrum of his pulse in his throat. He barely gives any other outward reaction, but the quickening of that beat tells me everything I need to know.
My hands shake, trembling as I hesitate. Skin hovers over skin, the warmth of him and the warmth of me mingling, a small radiating heat that mimics touch. His fingers flex at my wrists, another brush of temptation.
“Grace…”
He says my name differently this time.
It’s not a prayer now.
It’s a plea.
I’ve promised myself—over and over and over—that I won’t let this happen again. That I won’t give in to the feelings that churn like the perfect ingredients to a bomb between me and these men.
But this feels different.
It’s not just wild lust or need born of remembered feelings.
This is just Ciro and me, alone in this room. No past. No present. No masks.
And I want to touch him.
So I do.
Moving slowly, as if I’m afraid of startling a skittish animal, I reach for him. My touch is tender as my hands delicately settle on his ch
in and jaw, letting him adjust to that small touch before bringing his face toward mine.
His exhale becomes my inhale. Everything around us seems to pulse with the rhythm of our bodies, as if I can hear our heartbeats in the air.
Then I let my lips find his, closing the last bit of space between us.
I feel his shudder of breath against my mouth as his body goes tense, and I brace myself for him to push me away. To stand up and stride from the room, giving me what I thought I wanted.
I don’t want that anymore. In this moment, I think I might die if he leaves. Might die if I lose the barely-there press of his lips against mine. The warm, woodsy scent of him.
But maybe he feels the same desperate need for contact, because instead of pushing, he pulls me closer. His hands are unsteady as they grasp my waist, a light touch that burns all the way through me.
Ciro’s kiss is slow and burning as we both rise up onto our knees. I haven’t even tasted his tongue, but I’m nearly drunk on his lips. When I fall back onto the bed, he follows, hovering over me.
He murmurs my name against my mouth, a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. Even as my touches grow more needy, desperate, messy, he’s careful not to let his body touch mine more than where our lips are connected. His hands have moved away from my waist, bracing him up on the mattress, and although I want to feel his full weight on me, I know he can’t do that. Something holds him back.
His nose brushes my nose as he kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, my earlobe, but he gets pulled back up to my mouth, unable to stay away.
“You taste like honey, Grace.”
His rough whisper sends a flare of desire through me, and I forgot everything else as my hands skim down his neck and wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer to me—an instant mistake.
His body flinches against mine as he freezes, eyes going to that distant place I hate.
I blink up at him, my heart pounding as guilt rages through me.
Fuck. I ruined it. I hurt him without even meaning to.
His gaze is fixed, his pupils wide. It’s like he’s looking at me but not seeing me, slowly being dragged back into the darkness by the demons of his past… and I can’t let that happen.
