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“Because of me?”
“In the beginning, yeah, we used you as an excuse. Then all the fucked-up things we did couldn’t be put on a girl we didn’t know anymore. That was all on us.” He drops his forehead to our clasped hands, resting his head there for a moment. I draw one hand away and start stroking his hair. He kind of sighs, his shoulders dropping.
“Do I want to know what you did?”
He shakes his head. “No, Pen, you don’t.”
“Titch,” I say, my fingers tightening around the strands.
“Titch,” he mutters, his hands travelling up my thighs and around my hips. My legs part allowing him to slide between them, and my hands grasp his head, pulling against the strands of his white-blonde hair until he’s face-to-face with me once more.
“Are you still that boy I remember?”
“Are you still that girl?” he counters, closing his eyes briefly as I cup his face in my palm.
“No,” I whisper.
“I’m not that boy either,” he admits.
“What do we do?”
“We start over, Titch.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible—”
“It’s fucking possible.” I frown, but he leans in and kisses me roughly. “It’s fucking possible,” he repeats, gripping my face tightly in his hands. “You, Titch, aren’t slipping away again. I won’t fucking allow it.”
“And what if it doesn’t matter? What if you’ve got no control over what happens between us? What if this is out of my hands? What then?”
York’s gaze flashes with a fire hot enough to burn. “Then I kill the fucker that’s standing between us.”
“What if he kills you first?” I whisper, my throat tight. These words are the closest I’ve got to the truth of what happened that night at Rocks. I swallow hard, willing him to understand that I’ve never been a master of my own fate, not when I’m owned by Jeb, by my brother. Not when I’m trapped.
“Not gonna happen. I’m a motherfucking vampire, remember? They can’t die.” His lip lifts up in a half-smile, reminding me of that boy standing under the streetlamp outside of number 15 Jackson Street.
“Everyone has a weakness, including you. What if I’m that weakness, York? What then?”
York shakes his head. “You were never our weakness. You were always our strength.”
“Until I wasn’t. Until I walked away.”
“Then don’t walk away again, Titch. Don’t fucking walk away.”
“I want to stay—” I mutter.
His fingers tighten in my hair, his lips brushing against my mouth. “Iwantyou to stay. Now, tomorrow, forever, Titch.”
“I can’t promise you forever, York. No matter how much I want to do that. I can only promise you this moment. That’s all I can give you right now.”
“Then I’ll take that. I’ll take the now, and we’ll bench the future until we can figure this mess out.”
He brushes the tip of his nose against the bridge of mine. Then kisses my mouth sweetly, tenderly, with a softness that makes my heart ache and my toes curl in my trainers.
“Titch,” he mutters against my mouth.
“Yes?” I respond breathily as his lips graze over my chin, my cheek, my forehead, my ear, my throat.
“Can I tickle your pickle?”
