Page 64 of Shattered

“You did! Axel Irving just blushed!”

“I don’t blush.”

“You’re doing it right now! I can see it!”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I am not imagining the pink in your cheeks.” I was delighted. Absolutely delighted. “Oh my god, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He moved fast. One second I was laughing at him, the next his hands were on my waist and he was backing me against the wall beside the mantle.

“Call me pretty again,” he said—his voice lower now, dangerous.

“Why? What are you going to?—”

He kissed me and every thought I’d ever had just vanished.

This wasn’t like the parking lot kiss. This was intent and pure molten heat. His hands tightened on my waist. Mine went to his hair. I made a sound that should have been embarrassing but he swallowed it and made one back that destroyed me completely.

“Bedroom,” I managed when we broke apart for air.

“Down the hall.”

We made it maybe three steps before he kissed me again. Made it another five before my jacket was on the floor. Made it to his room but barely, stumbling through the door in a tangle of limbs and desperate touches.

His bedroom was as meticulously organized as the rest of his apartment. Big bed with dark sheets. More windows. But I wasn’t looking at the view.

I was looking at him.

At the way he was looking at me like I was something precious and terrifying at the same time.

“Do you want this?” he asked.

“Yes, I want you.” I pulled him closer. “I’m here. I chose you. I’m sure.”

That broke something in him; his eyes darkened, and suddenly we were all urgent touches and whispered names.

He was careful even in his desperation. His hands trembled as they reached for me, pausing long enough to ask without words.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes to all of it.”

Clothes were forgotten, and soon there was nothing between us but closeness and want.

He took his time. Even when I could feel how much he wanted me, even when my own hands were impatient, he moved like he was learning me—every reaction, every breath, every place where emotion lived under my skin.

“You’re killing me,” I managed.

“Good.” He kissed my neck, my collarbone, lingering like he’d waited years for this. “I’m not rushing.”

A part of me wondered exactly how long he’d been waiting. “Axel?—”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You. I want you.”

His eyes met mine—gray, intense, full of something that made my chest ache. “You have me. You’ve always had me.”

Then he was kissing me again, and thinking stopped. It was all feeling — his hands, his mouth, the warmth of him beside me, the way he whispered my name like it was something sacred.