Page 172 of Nyx

"The next day he came home with an even larger, more expensive set, and said he hated that other set anyway," she says with a sigh. "Even the new set seemed like an insult because the saucer I broke belonged to the set I had registered for, and we got as a wedding gift."

"He's an awful human being," I say despite the many other, more colorful words I could use to describe him.

"He never apologized, but fully expected me to say I was sorry every time he brought it up in conversation," she continues.

"Let's get your hand cleaned up," I say instead of listing all the reasons I have for killing the man.

She follows me into the bathroom. "It doesn't really hurt. It just scared me."

She only winces a few times while I'm getting her fixed up, once when the water runs over the wound and once more when I apply a wound-cleaning solution. I apply an antibiotic ointment from one of the small packets in the first-aid kit before applying a bandage.

For some reason, instead of taking a step back and putting the supplies away, I lift her hand and place a light kiss over the bandage as if it will make it heal faster.

When I look up at her, I find her staring at me as if I'm a blessing and that she's never been treated with such care and kindness before in her life.

Then her eyes dip to my mouth the same way they did before the kiss in her apartment.

"Juliet," I whisper, trying to make her name sound like a warning, but it comes out on a needy breath instead.

She dips her head as if telling me she feels exactly the same way.

She takes a step closer, pressing her uninjured hand to my chest, and I swear the warmth of her palm feels like an active defibrillator paddle through my shirt.

Her gaze bounces between my eyes and mouth, and my body feels like it's hers to control.

My pulse pounds, the rhythm in my ears so fast, I have to wonder if it should be medically alarming.

My breathing is uneven, and a sheen of sweat begins at the nape of my neck with the way she sends my body into overdrive.

My cock thickens in my jeans, but it's just one more thing I don't seem to have control over in this moment.

"This is a bad idea," she whispers.

"It is," I agree, without making a move to step back.

"I want to do it anyway," she whispers, making it sound like a confession for just the two of us.

"There's no pressure," I assure her. "No expectations."

"What if I kissed you right now?"

I swallow, every muscle in my body aching for exactly what she might be offering.

"I'd kiss you back," I tell her honestly.

"But then you'll stop as you did before?"

I swallow again. "If you want me to."

She shakes her head. "I wouldn't want you to stop."

Her eyes drift right back down to my lips, and they part as if she's controlling me rather than having the ability to control myself.

"You might," I argue, finding some part of my brain that's still capable of reasoning.

"Could I?"

"Could you stop?"