Page 36 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Are you going to kiss me?” I ask.

8

Ryan

The question hangs there for only a moment, heavy and dangerous, before he says, “I think you want me to.”

And I do.

I do, but I also want to unravel my nerves, or run, or scream, or do literally anything except admit how much I want to feel his hands on my skin, pressing me down, making me feel something real for once.

So instead of answering, I rest my hands on my knees, then dig my nails into my thighs.

“What if I said yes?” I ask.

Camille stands, just enough to close the distance between us, and one of his hands cups my jaw, thumb stroking along the edge of my cheekbone. He does not move in quickly. If anything, he slows down time, letting me see all the ways I could flinch away, all the ways I could stop him.

I don’t.

He doesn’t actually kiss me, though. His lips hover, nearly touching mine, and my breath hitches. The only thing I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears, and the quiet click of the espresso machine cooling down.

I wait for Camille to make the move, to commit, to break the tension that’s been thickening all evening. But he just breathes me in, eyes half-lidded, holding me in the gravity of his touch. My hands are sweating, and my thighs are rigid against the edge of the cushion. I know what will happen if I let this go forward. The ache in my chest is matched only by the low burn in my body, a want so pressing it’s almost painful. But my brain, that goddamn sparking live wire, can’t just let it be simple.

I turn my head, only slightly, enough that his lips find my cheek instead, skimming down to my jaw. He lets them linger there, warm and teasing, and I almost whimper from the anticipation. I feel him smile against my skin, and I want to curse him for it.

“I’m leaving here as soon as I can. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want any feelings involved.”

Camille’s lips hover by my ear. “That is not what I am asking of you,” he says, and the way his words curl around me makes my whole body shiver.

“Good. Because I definitely don’t want to talk about feelings,” I manage, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.

He hums, deep in his chest. “No feelings. Only what you want.”

What I want is his mouth, his hands, his weight, and his majestic fucking cock, and I don’t care if that makes me a cliché. I want to feel reckless, wanted, and real. So I blurt, “We can hook up. Just—sex friends, or whatever. If you’re into that.”

Camille sits back on his heels, considering me with a seriousness that makes me squirm. For a second, I think he’s going to push, insist, or make fun of me. But then he only nods, and his eyes are all steel and hunger.

“I agree to your terms,” he says, and the words are formal enough to make me snort, which breaks the tension and replaces it with nervous laughter.

“Cool,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Good.”

He leans in, this time with intention—no more games, no more holding back. His mouth meets mine, and the first brush is light, exploratory, like he’s mapping the shape of me from the outside in. I open my lips, and he takes the invitation, deepening the kiss, tasting, and pulling me into him. There’s nothing polite about it now; it’s greedy, devouring, and I’m answering with every part of me that’s been starved for this.

His hands slide down my neck, pausing for just a second at my collar, before working their way over the curve of my shoulders and down my arms. I don’t realize I’m shaking until his fingers dig into my bicep, steadying me. The heat between us is thick and dizzying.

“I want you,” Camille says, breaking away just long enough to murmur the words against my mouth.

I want him too, and I’m about to say so, but as Camille’s teeth tug on my bottom lip, my body goes rigid, and a warning klaxon starts up in my brain.

I pull back, just a millimeter. “Wait.”

Camille’s eyes darken, every muscle in his body stilled in a breathless wait. I force myself to say it, because if I don’t, I never will. “I’m trans,” I rasp. “Like, I have—” I gesture downward, not trusting myself to finish.

His eyes flick down, then up, then a flicker of confusion and awareness passes through him. He says nothing. Doesn’t move a muscle.

My hands are shaking.

But then he looks at me as though I’ve told him the weather, not some secret that could make or break the night. “And?” he says, voice soft but perfectly neutral. I can’t read if it’s a good or bad kind of neutral. “I am not concerned with the arrangement of your anatomy, Ryan,” he adds, and he says my name like it’s a benediction.