Page 136 of Dark Night of the Soul

I lifted my hand, pressed it against his stubbled cheek. Prickly against my palm, giving me an awareness that hummed through me. I pulled him toward me. His mouth yielded to mine. Slow. Thoughtful. He tasted faintly of whiskey and longing. A kiss as tender and light as the sea breeze rolling over us. Stealing my breath. Letting my tired soul melt into him.

His hand tightened on my back a fraction. Enough to make me notice.

No spike. No warning tremor in that cold place in my brain.

Just desire.

Then his mouth left mine and whispered over the sensitive place behind my ear.

“I like kissing you.” I don’t know why I said it. But that no-filter thing sometimes worked against me.

“I like you under me. Unraveling.”

Oh.

Well.

That was unexpected.

And before I could tell my brain to stop, I said, “Then that’s where I need to be.”

His eyes met mine and even in the shadows, I could see they were molten gold. Which did things to me. Unraveling, he said. I was unraveling now with a hyperawareness that permeated through me. His hand on my back. Other hand on my thigh. Not moving. Resting. Waiting. Like he couldn’t decide if I meant it or not.

I meant it.

I whispered against his lips, “That was an invitation in case you missed it.”

He crushed his mouth against mine with a fierce intensity and for one brief heartbeat, that spike was there. Pulsing. Pushing to the forefront of my mind. Burning. Wanting to trigger. I shoved it back down, knowing this was always going to be a fight. Knowing I was never going to be free. Refusing to let it control me.

And so, I kissed him back with the same intensity.

When his hands slipped into my hair and his mouth assaulted my neck, a broken sound I couldn’t control escaped me.

“I think—we should—” I started, but the words were broken between breaths.

“Yes.”

He moved me off his lap, took my hand—pausing only a moment to secure the doors—and then led me to the bedroom.

The only light was from the streetlamps filtered through the curtains at the one window. The blankets were still rumpled from my previous attempt at sleep. And though we’d done this once before since the alteration, I was still a nervous wreck.

I turned into him, my fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt. He let me pull it over his head. Then stood there, waiting. Waiting for me to decide my next move. I pressed my palm against his chest. Felt his racing heart. Fast. Like mine.

His hand covered mine.

I didn’t move. I focused my gaze on his hand over mine. Wondering if, once again, I would have to fight this every step of the way like last time.

“You’re trembling.” His voice was low, quiet in the silence of the room.

I was. I knew I was. “I’m—I’m thinking.”

“It’s okay to change your mind.”

“Not about that,” I corrected. “About—” I cut myself off, not wanting to voice the thing aloud.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“I’m afraid of me,” I whispered.