Page 199 of Buried in Blood
Her hand trails lower, over my ribs, down my side. There’s no urgency to it—just exploration. Like she’s reminding herself I’m real. Like she needs the contact as much as I do.
Her body is still so warm. Fragile and strong all at once. She feels like something I was never meant to hold, but now that I am—I’d burn the world to keep it in my hands.
“What are you thinking about?” She asks softly, lifting her eyes to mine.
“You.”
She smiles. A rare, slow smile that starts with her mouth but lands in her eyes.
“You don’t have to handle me like glass,” she murmurs.
“You just got out of the hospital,” I say.
“I’m still alive.”
“I know.”
Her fingers graze the hem of my shirt. “Then don’t treat me like I’m broken. Not right now.”
I suck in a breath. Her touch isn’t desperate—it’s deliberate. Sure. And mine? It’s already trembling with the restraint I’ve been forcing on myself for weeks.
“Are you sure?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods once. “I need to feel something real.”
I hesitate for half a second longer.
Then I kiss her.
It’s not soft.
It’s not cautious.
It’s a fuse catching fire.
Her hands bury into my hair, pulling me closer, and I press her into the mattress with a groan, my weight resting carefully above her, terrified of hurting her and equally terrified of stopping.
Her mouth opens beneath mine, and I drink her in, devour her like I’ve been starved for years, and she’s the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation. Her tongue brushes mine, and my whole body locks up.
Jesus.
She’s still recovering. Still bruised. And yet, when she arches against me, moaning into my mouth, all I want to do is tear this world down brick by brick so she never has to be afraid again.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper into her skin as I kiss her neck, her collarbone, every inch I can touch without making her wince. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
She shudders under me. “Only if you stop.”
My hand slides beneath the oversized hoodie she’s wearing—mine, actually—and I groan when I feel that she’s not wearing anything underneath. I slide up the warm material and observe her perfect fucking body.
Her skin is soft. Warm—Alive.
I drag my mouth down her chest, carefully, and I suck in her perfect nipple. She gasps and threads her fingers into my hair. Her hips lift to meet mine, and I press down just enough to let her feel the weight of me, the way I’m already rock hard and barely holding it together.
Her legs fall open and I settle between them, still kissing her, still reverent.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper against her breast.
“No,” she breathes, “I’m just yours.”
