The cliff at the end of it.
She steps closer again, close enough now that I can smell the bourbon and peach on her breath.
“Derby,” she says.
My name in her mouth sounds different back here.
Not like a joke.
Not like an argument.
Like a question she is afraid to ask.
I move slow. Slow enough she can stop me with one breath. I lift my hand, not touching her, just giving her the chance to move away.
She doesn’t.
Her eyes stay on mine.
“You want me close?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I step closer.
Her breath shivers.
We are inches apart now. Her face tilted up. My hand still not on her. Every filthy, hungry part of me is awake and furious at the leash I put on it myself.
“You want my hands on you?”
Her eyes flutter.
Then open.
“Yes.”
I touch her waist.
Light.
She sucks in a breath like that alone is too much.
Maybe it is.
Maybe I should step back now.
I don’t.
Because she doesn’t ask me to.
Because her hands come up and rest against my chest, fingers curling in my shirt.
Because the whole damn world narrows to her mouth.
I lower my head.
She rises a little.