Page 46 of Drawn to Death
His other hand comes up, and suddenly he’s holding me, really holding me. He lets out a breath, like he’s been suffocating for hours. “Then we die together.”
We just stand there, tangled up in each other, his chin resting on my head, my hands twisted in his shirt.
I’m not sure who moves first. Maybe it’s me, tilting my face up. Maybe it's him, bending down. Either way, suddenly we’re eye to eye, breath mingling, the air thick between us.
I kiss him. Desperate. Clumsy. Real. My lips press hard to his, all the fear and want and longing I’ve bottled up since the day he let me live. Since he brought me home instead of leaving me dead in a ditch somewhere.
For a second, he doesn’t move. He just freezes, like he’s not sure what to do. I start to pull away, an apology already on my lips…
Then his hand catches the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and he kisses me back. Not gentle, not careful, but like he’s been starving for this. Like he’s been holding back for years.
The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding past my lips, hungry and hot. I make a sound I don’t recognize, something raw and needy from deep in my chest. His arms lock around me, lifting, pulling me closer.
We stumble backward, his legs hitting the bedframe. He sits on the edge of the bed, dragging me down with him, never breaking the kiss. I land straddling his lap, my hands on his face, his on my hips. When we finally break apart, both of us gasping, his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen.
“Are you sure?” His voice is rough.
I nod. I can’t speak. Yes. God, yes. I’ve never been more sure of anything.
His hands slide under my shirt, warm and reverent, fingertips gliding over my skin with a care that makes me shiver. I reachfor his buttons, clumsy with need, but he pushes my hands away and undoes them himself, slow and methodical. The shirt parts. Scars everywhere, a map of violence and survival, each one a story I’ve only glimpsed before.
I trace them, gentle, and feel him tense, then ease. These are the marks of a life that should have ended a dozen times, but hasn’t. Somehow, he’s made it here. To me.
My shirt is next, peeled off like a layer of fear. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering, and I fight the urge to hide. Instead, I lean in, pressing my lips to his neck, feeling the sudden jump of his pulse.
Time warps. Everything sharper, the scratch of stubble under my palm, his hands mapping my back, the heat between us. He eases me onto the bed, his weight settling over me, and I feel safe, not trapped. His hands hover, uncertain. The most dangerous man I’ve ever met, hesitating now, as if afraid to take too much.
“Quell,” he says, my name a soft question seeking approval.
I touch his cheek, leaving a faint streak of pencil dust. “Please,” I whisper. “I want this. I want you.”
Everything else slips away. Clothes gone, skin to skin, nothing left to hide. He moves with his usual precision, but there’s tenderness now, a care in every touch as he preps me for him. He finds my hands, laces his fingers with mine, pins them to the mattress as he enters me.
Pain and pleasure tangle, sharp then sweet, my body figuring him out. We settle into a rhythm, slow at first, then urgent. Our breathing syncs, two heartbeats pounding in time. I watch his face, see the control slip, see the intensity in his eyes burn away everything else. Hear the slap of flesh hitting together like it’s the most natural sound in the universe.
“Stay with me,” I gasp, barely words at all. “Don’t go.”
“I’m here,” he answers, voice rough. “I’m here.”
When my orgasm hits, he holds me through it, follows me over the edge. The world goes white, then dark, then comes back in pieces: his weight, his breath, the tears on my cheek I haven’t even noticed until now.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, his arm heavy around my waist, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. The room is quiet except for us, the city outside a distant hum.
“I never saw this coming,” I murmur, tracing idle lines over his skin. “Did you?”
He’s quiet, stroking my back. “Only every time I look at you.”
I lift my head. His face is unguarded for once, open, almost shy. “Really?”
“From the first day,” he says. “When I found you in your apartment, sketching my kill. When I should have ended you, but didn’t.” He brushes hair from my face. “I know something has changed. I just don’t know what it means.”
I settle against him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. “What happens now? Vincenzo will still come for us.”
“Yes.” His reply holds no fear, just calm. “But we’ll be ready.”
“Together?” I ask, needing it spelled out.
He pulls me closer. “Together.”
