Page 71 of Touch

“People hate the things that hurt them,” he murmurs. “Being unable to get you out of my mind is like being stabbed repeatedly. The sadistic part is that I enjoy it, however torturous. At this rate, I might let you kill me one day.”

“Do not say that,” she whispers.

Absorbing her rigid pose, Andrew’s throat bobs. “I’m about to grovel my ass off now. May I, goddess?”

Love wavers, then nods. “Proceed, human.”

Pushing off the doorframe, he stalks closer and sinks to his knees. Craning his face up to hers, Andrew speaks around a mouthful of gravel. “I’m sorry for walking away that first night in this cottage. I’m sorry for the kiss with Holly. I’m sorry it wasn’t you in my arms. I’m sorry you had to watch it happen. I’m sorry you thought, even for a second, that I wanted anyone but you. I’m sorry for every moment you’re in pain, every second I’m not around you, and every sentence that doesn’t end in your name. I’m sorry for not prostrating myself like this afterward, for waiting twenty-four hours to kneel at your feet. I’m sorry for everything. I’m so fucking sorry, Love.”

Those words chip away at Love’s chest. Her arms fold tighter, as if that will stifle the progress.

“I wouldn’t have kissed her back if I believed you wanted me,” Andrew entreats. “But I couldn’t stop replaying what you said on the street. The memory destroyed me, so I thought ifyou didn’t care, then it would do no harm to console someone else. She was broken over Griffin, and I didn’t have the heart to push her away. Though, this doesn’t excuse anything. I fucked up. Period.”

Because Love’s tongue has lost its ability to function, he goes on, each confession tearing her world to shreds. “I wasn’t thinking about Holly during the kiss. All I could think about was you. How you didn’t want me the way I wanted you, how that crushed me. I tried to prove I could care for somebody else, then did a spectacular job failing. While it was happening, I was remembering that day in the bookstore with you. I remembered you dragging your finger across the bookshelves and how it drove me nuts.

“I could list countless other incidents that live rent-free in my head like paranormal porn. The way your eyebrows pinch together when you’re annoyed; how your chin lifts when you’re about to brag or argue; how your eyes change from maroon to bloodred when you’re so mad, it turns you on; how your sweet tits rise and fall when you’re riled up. But more than anything, images of you pointing a weapon at my heart like you once did, blushing like you’re doing now, and coming hard like you would if I could really touch you… those fantasies are my undoing. But without your forgiveness, they’ll be my ruin.”

Love’s arms loosen, and the rock in her throat shrinks to a pellet. “I have ruined enough. You aren’t the only one who took actions they regret.”

“It was a piece-of-shit move, giving Holly the wrong idea, offering false hope in exchange for comfort,” Andrew admits. “I apologized and came clean afterward. But then I fucked up again at my house, rubbing what happened with Holly in your face, hoping to make you as jealous as I was about Anger.”

Like any bona fide deity, Love’s spirits lift a fraction. “You were jealous?”

“Violently jealous.”

Her compacted wings shift beneath her shoulder blades. Nonetheless, she forces the feathered panels to stay where they are, keeping them tucked from sight. “Then maybe you should write that down. With all the corrupt feelings I’ve inspired, you could write a novel about me. I’d make an infuriating character.”

Sad amusement lifts the corner of his mouth. But upon second inspection of her features, anxiety and outrage tighten his countenance. “Jesus, Love,” he grits out, lunging to his feet and attempting to cradle her face, undiscouraged when his hands only hover through her. “You’re exhausted.”

“It’s temporary,” she evades. “Drama will fatigue anyone.”

“Get in bed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get. In. Bed.”

“Now see here. I’m neither frail, nor will I be ordered about by a mort—”

With a grunt, Andrew snatches a pillow and uses it to shove her backward. The second she lands on the mattress with an affronted yelp, the human sets about coddling Love, disregarding her indignant protests. She gripes and moves to rise, then stalls when he tucks the sheets around her.

Although inanimate objects are the exception, it’s different with clothing. Whatever touches her flesh becomes intangible. Yet a second layer such as this bedding acts as a bridge, the closest they can get to tactile contact, and the sensation halts her tongue.

Andrew registers this loophole as well, his palms grasping her hip and shoulder. The weight and shape of his hands on her body is different from when he’d drawn his pen over her pussy in the bookshop. Fate, she has never experienced anything like this, the stimulation of being held, braced, grasped.

Like magnets, their gazes cling before he eases the tension and releases the fabric. Clearing his throat, he continues arranging the bedding around her.

“So that was new,” he remarks, fluffing the pillow under her head.

“It wasn’t,” she disputes. “Apart from the pen kink, we merely never thought to attempt such a thing.”

“I have. I’ve been thinking about ways to touch you since the dawn of time. But you’re right. Besides the pen, I didn’t believe it would work that easily when it came to pressing our bodies together, or that you’d want me to try.”

“I…” Love struggles to maintain her composure despite the jolt between her thighs. “To that, I would say sometimes the easiest things are taken for granted.”

“There’s no way in fuck I’d ever take the privilege of touching you for granted,” he vows. “If I had the ability, I’d have swept you off your feet and carried you to bed.”

Her eyebrows staple together. “I would have put up a fight.”

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