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He’s gone completely white.
“Sorry,” he gasps, the word a struggle. “I think I stopped breathing.”
Well, duh. I did too. But I’m not about to faint now, am I? Meanwhile, he looks like he is.
“I-I crossed a line,” he goes on, ruining everything, and for a second, he looks much more terrified than I ever could have thought possible for someone to look. “That’s what happened.”
“Why did you do it?” I murmur, and discover that I am shaking and have turned into jelly at the same time. My whole body is on fire, my skin is too tight for my bones. My lungs are on fire from not breathing for so long. My lips are so swollen, it hurts to talk.
It’s the sweetest kind of pain. One hundred percent would recommend.
“To destroy myself, apparently,” he replies in this low, delicious rumble and immediately I’m covered in chills. He grabs his head as if he’s in pain.
To destroy myself.
Oh, you have no idea what destroying yourself feels like, Roman god.
I sit back and exhale. For the first time in hours, I actually breathe.
“But, look, Olivia,” he says quietly, his tongue rolling over my name. It sets me on fire. It melts that he said my name like that. His eyes are travelling over my face, his thumb trailing a path down my cheek. All of his attention is on me, and that makes me hot all over. “You’re not crying any longer.”
“Oh. Good,” I whisper. “Then do it again.”
“With pleasure,” he smiles.
Gosh, that smile. Imagine him ever being happy enough to smile a real smile. If when he is in pain his smile is this blinding, then his real one must rival the literal sun.
He lowers his head to mine, and obeys.
He starts slower this time, but when he builds up to the kissing part, it’s so much more bone-melting than before. His tongue starts exploring my lips, my teeth, and when I open my mouth more, encouraging him to deepen the kiss, he moans. He grabs my neck in those long, strong fingers, just like I dreamed he would, and pushes his tongue down my throat.
I let go completely, losing myself in the sensation of heat and pleasure.
He stops finally, looking a bit flushed and a bit pale and a whole lot of mouthwatering. His cheeks are red, and his neck has marks from where my fingers pulled him to me—they are faint, already disappearing, but the fact that I gave them to him is enough to almost send me to my knees.
I look at him standing there, taking a step back from me, and a strange thought strikes me. The way he is panting and swaying on his feet, he looks like he needs a moment to compose himself after that kiss.
Well, I’ll say.
That was some kiss.
His palm is still resting lightly on my back, but he is steadying himself as well as me. To see him like this, so shaken, makes me dizzy with happiness, and also with another feeling I can’t quite place.
“There,” he whispers in a husky, out of breath voice, his chest rising and falling as he pants. “You’ve kissed a boy in Vermont. Isn’t that a movie thing? You can tick that off the list.”
His voice is gruff, and he kind of sounds confused, as if he did not expect that to happen. Or for it to be so good.
“You are not a boy,” I snicker. “You’re a man.”
“I am your man, my queen” he says, his eyes shining strangely and for once, I don’t think he means it as an insult. I don’t know if I should take him seriously or not, but right now it doesn’t matter, does it?
The illusion of him is enough. The dream of him is enough. It’s more than enough. It’s too much.
“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, wiping tears I didn’t know were falling down my cheeks. “Don’t cry, my queen. I’ll make sure…” He stops himself before he says something stupid like ‘it’s going to be ok’. Like a lie. “I promise you one thing, you will talk to your dad, ok? I swear you will.” He presses his lips against my temple so hard it hurts.
“I’m being a baby,” I murmur.
“I don’t think you are,” he says, which makes me cry harder, because if he too thinks I’m going to die, then that makes it real.
