Page 36 of Infernal Affairs

“For you?”

“For me.”

She laughs, and I discover I would happily spend another century earning that sound.

The conversation slows into something quieter. Comfortable.

The city hums beyond the balcony. Somewhere downstairs, someone laughs. A car passes. Wind stirs the hanging plants.

Ordinary sounds.

Extraordinary evening.

I reach across the table once more and lace my fingers through hers.

“You know,” I say, “I've spent a very long time believing forever was measured in centuries.”

She tilts her head.

“And now?”

I look at her.

“Now I think it might simply be measured in evenings like this.”

She smiles in that impossibly open way of hers, and whatever carefully constructed defenses I still possess surrender without protest.

Perhaps she was right.

Perhaps this really is cosmic.

CHAPTER 12

ENOCH

I’m not prepared for the velocity at which we come together. Daisy’s hands find my face like she’s memorizing the fault lines of a planet, and I can’t help but do the same—thumbing the curve of her jaw, mapping her with a need that borders on religious. The angle at which her lips part, the softness in her cheek, even the damp breath that catches between us: it all presses me to the brink.

She clutches my shoulders, so tight I feel her nails through the shirt. There is no point in rushing, and yet, every cell in me is pulsing with the imperative to move, to anchor her closer, to claim. When I kiss her again, I allow myself the greed I’ve always denied. I nip her bottom lip, taste the wine, the cinnamon, something a little like fear and a lot like arousal.

Daisy pulls at the buttons of my shirt, awkward at first but quickly determined. I help, shrugging it off and letting it fall wherever it wants. Her hands fly to my bare chest, fingers skimming along the ridge of muscle like she’s surprised to find earth in the middle of the underworld. She laughs, a low, delighted sound, and presses her palm flat, feeling for my heartbeat. It’s there, I realize, hammering for her as though this is my first night alive.

“Your skin is really hot,” she whispers, and I lean in, letting her feel the warmth I usually keep contained.

“You have that effect on me,” I say, hoping the old seducer’s line lands as intended, but she only laughs, rolls her eyes, and draws my mouth back to hers. Her hands skate up, slipping behind my neck, tugging at the hair at my nape. She shifts closer, tangling our legs as we stumble backward onto the edge of her bed.

It’s a mess—jumble of pillows and blankets and her old teddy bear thrown like a sentry to the side—but it could be a throne room. This is the only axis in the universe, right now. Daisy and me and the moment we tip over from hunger to something ferocious.

She sits and pulls me down with her, landing with a squeak. The skirt of her dress is bunched around her waist. She looks up at me, eyes shining, lips slightly askew from kissing. I kneel over her, settling my weight between her legs, catching the edges of her dress in my hands. With slow intent, I draw the fabric up and over her head, careful not to tangle in her hair. She raises her arms so gracefully, I nearly lose my train of thought.

Her body is a revelation. She’s wearing nothing underneath but a pale blue bra, barely a slip of fabric, the cups edged with tiny seashell lace. Her breasts are perfect—the way they fill my hands and how her nipples harden as the cool air brushes them. I run the backs of my fingers along her skin, and she shudders, arching into my touch.

Daisy’s hands yank at my belt, playful but impatient. “I have wanted you shirtless since you first walked into the bakery,” she says, voice rough. “Don’t make me wait another day.”

I want to retort—a clever joke, a self-deprecating jibe—but she pulls open the belt and the moment evaporates. She finds the button and zipper, and then my slacks are open, boxers already tented with need. She strokes along my length, featherlight, savoring the way I twitch at her touch.

“God,” she mutters, “I’m so glad that’s not a myth.”

I almost laugh but her palm circles me, squeezes, and I forget language entirely for several long seconds. Our mouths find each other again, sloppier this time, more desperate. My horns are in the way, always, but she doesn’t care, runs her fingers along the base of them, making a sound of curiosity and delight. The sensation vibrates right down my spine, sharp as lust and twice as urgent.