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Fuck.
I don’t want to hear it. Can’t bear it. Normally my mind splits off at times like these, but Elise is here. I want to dive into her, not run away. I want to escape into the sugar-sweet taste of her kiss and let myself feel it.
My hand on her chin. Her face, tipped toward mine. I brush my lips against hers and Elise makes a soft, sad, desperate sound.
Her arms go around my neck. It’s fucked that she finds my clothes, my body, familiar enough to touch me like this. It’s a crime that she would kiss me back after what I said and what I did and what I’m still doing.
She tastes so good.
Fuck, she tastes so good.
Shefeelsgood, and not like buttoning up a flawlessly ironed shirt. Like waking up warm under the covers in my own bed in my old bedroom when my parents were still alive and no one had ever pinned me against a brick wall while I held my hand over a knife wound.
For once, I don’t calculate. I don’t look for the fascinating thing. I don’t study her tells, searching for weaknesses. I let my hands move over her body just how I want. My palms on soft clothes. Her curves and angles underneath. Her warmth. Her breath. Her heartbeat.
Elise makes a little noise into my mouth.
Is it just because I’ve done this so many times? Does she only like it because all those nights in the alley taught me how to make another person happy enough that I could survive?
Is it really just me, or am I filthy and calculating down to the core, even if I’m not thinking about it?
Shame attempts to break through, but it’s lost in her kiss. Her waist. Her hips. I could take her upstairs. I could let her sleep in my bed.
Her hips press closer, and I angle her so I can get my hand into her leggings. Brush my knuckles across the soft skin of her belly. She pulls me closer with a mewl. I want her heat. Elise spreads her thighs. The damned leggings are in the way. Doesn’t matter. I’ve dealt with worse.
I’m sorry.
Gentle contact on her clit. Elise shivers, her body tensing. She kisses me harder. One more sound in the back of her throat.
And then she pulls back. Steps away.
The movement is so delicate.
She looks to the side, her knuckles lifted to her lips. When her eyes come back to mine, they’re bright with tears.
“You don’t have to do this. I can’t let you do this. You were—you were so kind to help me get Lydia. But I can’t give in. I know you’re doing this because you think you have to.”
“I don’t. I’m not.”
“You don’t want this.” She holds up both hands, palms forward. “You don’t have to force yourself. There’s no need.” Elise’s smile flashes, then falters. She steps forward, rises on tiptoe, and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for letting us stay with you. We’ll go home in the morning, and we won’t bother you again.”
4
ELISE
The next morning,there’s a neat stack of clothes outside my bedroom door.
I lean out to collect them. Across the hall, Lydia’s doing the same thing. Her face is set and stoic. My little sister waves at me, then disappears back into the bedroom and closes the door behind her.
The last thing I want to do is take her back to my parents’ house.
Water runs through the pipes. While Lydia takes her turn getting ready, I let myself entertain wild fantasies of escape. It’s the kind of thing I used to daydream about as a little girl.
A backpack. Some cash. A train ticket or bus ticket. Some mode of transportation my dad wouldn’t be caught dead using.
The white-noise whine of the hair dryer Gabriel keeps in his guest bathroom filters through the hall and blows away the imaginary plan I was making. It involved heading west to somewhere warm and relatively isolated. I could start a new bakery or work as someone’s personal chef. Almost all my experience is in baking, not general cooking, but I could learn.
Not today. Not in the time we have left.
