It’s thelovethat breaks me. My head turns toward him and our eyes lock in the span of a heartbeat. And on any other night, I’d try to fight it — that magnetic tug I feel whenever I’m around him. But I don’t have any more fight left in me.
I gaze into his beautiful face, at the heartbreaking contradiction of tenderness and fear playing out on those gorgeous goddamned features, and I can’t stop myself from falling forward into his chest.
His arms come around me, crushing me to him. It’s not like our last hug — there’s no uncertainty, no hesitation. This one is fierce, fraught with need. The need to touch and cling to a man who isn’t going to rip the rug out from under me. At least, not right now.
I press my wet eyes against the column of his throat and hear him suck in a terse breath. My hands wind around his broad shoulders, then slide up to lace behind his neck as I flatten myself against him — chest to chest, heart to heart. And it’s totally crazy… but there, with our pulses racing in time to the same beat, I think that Carter might just be strong enough to bear the weight of dark despair inside me. Even if it’s only for a few minutes.
Hold me tightly.
Hold me together.
Hold me until this nightmare ends.
Hold me like you’ll never let me go.
We stay like that until my tears have slowed and my choppy breaths have leveled out. Feeling blessedly numb for the first time in hours, I lift my head to look at him.
Our faces align perfectly in the darkness. My fingers grip the back of his neck, where his hair curls slightly at the nape. A low sound rattles deep inside his throat — whether to warn me away or urge me closer, I’m not certain. His blue eyes burn so hot, flames of desire dance along my skin as I lean in, inch by careful inch. And before I can talk myself out of it…
I brush my lips against his.
It’s meant to be chaste. A simple thank you. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But that small brush sparks into something else — something that soon blazes out of my control.
Carter’s hands lift to cup my tear-swollen face. My fingertips dig tight against the back of his neck. And quite suddenly, with no warning at all, he’s kissing me.
Or maybe I’m kissing him.
I’m not sure who moves first.
I’m not sure it matters.
The only thing I know with certainty is, now that it’s happening, there’s no turning back. Never mind that it’s wrong. Forbidden. Doomed. Never mind that it never should’ve happened.
A brush. A spark.
A kiss. A wildfire.
We are an inferno. A combustible, uncontrollable flame. With a hungry groan, his tongue spears into my mouth — teasing, tasting, consuming — and I can’t help the cry that tears from my throat.
Yes.
God, yes.
I didn’t realize how much I craved his touch until I felt his big hands moving over my skin. How much I wanted this — his grip sliding back into my hair, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip, his hard body flush against mine.
Or, maybe I did realize, I just didn’t acknowledge it. Not even to myself, except in the darkest corners of my mind when I’d replay that first night we met. That spark I felt, even then, when we were two strangers in the backseat of an SUV, without any names or futures or families to hold us back.
The kiss turns desperate, ravenous. We cling tightly, a rising tide of passion sweeping us both away until any chance of turning back is lost to the undertow. His hands slide down my body, exploring the curves of my waist, searching for any exposed patch of skin he can caress. I try to maneuver myself onto his lap but my damn dress is so tight, it’s impossible to straddle him. Rife with impatience, Carter reaches down to the side slit of my skirt and promptly tears it from upper-calf to upper-thigh. My eyes go wide at the sound of fabric ripping as he does the same to the other side.
A second later, I no longer care that he’s reduced my dress to ribbons, because he pulls me down onto his lap. My knees hit the stone bench on either side of his thighs as I plant myself firmly against him. A bolt of pure, unadulterated lust shoots straight between my legs as I feel the evidence of his desire for me — his long, hard cock, throbbing with need even through the fabric of his pants.
“God, Emilia,” he groans against my neck, gripping me so hard it’s almost painful. I clutch him back just as tight, grounding myself in his touch. Needing to feel something besides grief and sadness and heartache. But even as he holds me steady, I’m spinning out of control. I can feel it happening, and I’m powerless to stop it.
A shout in a silent crowd.
A thousand camera flashes.
A cruel knife to the back.