Page 113 of Torn

When he halts within grabbing distance, her skirt brushes his knees. That alone causes a reaction in his pelvis.

“I can be romantic as well,” he says in a husky timbre.

“Wait,” she peeps, holding up her palms just before he can snatch her. Trotting from the hedges, she vanishes around the corner. A few moments later, music floats across the deck, the kind of song that might have been written in space, a melodic and spectral chime.

Anger chuckles. Of course, she’s setting the mood. It’s only the sporadic occasions when he takes her off guard, takes her against a wall, takes the drama out of her and replaces it with rawness. But always, whether urgent and passionate, leisurely and long, their bodies are always honest. Always them.

She’s barely pranced back around the corner when he grabs her. Seizing her hips, Anger hoists her against him, and then her mouth is his. Andhismouth ishers.

His tongue whips into that endlessly wet chasm. Merry’s hands hook on to his shoulders, her frame melding to him. Sucking in air, their lips fold and roll.

Without breaking the kiss, they travel deeper into the haven. Life smells of vanilla and sandalwood. Candles flicker, and theHomesign beams.

Tell me a word—a meaningful word, and I’ll request it for you in neon, via the stars.

She’d made that offer once, when they met. But he doesn’t need to answer her, because she’s already given him that word a thousand times over.

They mumble and whisper while tearing off clothing, but he’s unsure of what they’re saying. Greedy things and loving things pile on his tongue, which thrashes into her mouth, punching out a rhythm that matches what he’s about to do to her.

At last, they’re naked on his bed, surrounded by a million sources of light. A blanket swathes around bare flesh while Anger thrusts into her, their hips riding each other.

Merry’s legs knot around his waist, cradling his weight as they pitch across the surface, in tune with his restless pace. Their skin slides as she arches against him, her breasts pointed on his torso, her waist rolling with his. She’s so open, and he’s so deep, and they’re so close.

He hisses, strokes into her, into that tight place that pools around him, that holds on to him. It’s fast and languid, hard and soft.

When she cries out, his mouth catches the sound. His length chases the same euphoria, his body working, his pace quickening.

Just like his heart.

“It’s yours,” he promises.

“And it’s yours,” she vows.

They gasp those words over and over. Their hearts, which belong to one another, melt into this space, this niche, this room that she’s created for him.

For them.

Because this is love. This is being in love.

Their mouths split in climax, emitting the truest sounds he’s ever known. He’s torn between screaming and sighing with pleasure—and this is it. This is the most beautiful way to rip apart, not the pang of losing, but the bliss of receiving. This is the only moment when it’s worth being torn.

And now he knows what that feels like.

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