Page 143 of House of Crimson Kisses
Eleanor’s sturdy frame sits at the kitchen table in the latest cottage we have commandeered.
She buries her head in her hands, her loose waves falling free and covering her face. The strain of the last few months is visible in the taut shape of her shoulders. I sigh as I sit next to her and pass her a cup of tea. A fire sings a symphony of crackles in the corner of the room.
She sits up, her hands sliding over my knees, the light press of her fingers against my skirts just enough to tell me I’m hers.
“We should talk,” she says, pushing the tea aside.
This is the tension in her shoulders. We’ve been avoiding this, despite the fact we’re both aware. For weeks, they’ve been gaining on us. Neither of us have wanted to confront it.
But we are exhausted.
“We should,” I say. “But... Can we pretend? One more time before we face reality?”
“Anything for you.” She slides her hands to my arse and pulls me up out of the kitchen chair and into her arms.
I swing my legs around her back and lock them. My lips find their way to hers, pressing a gentle kiss.
She kisses me, deep, intense pressure building between our caresses. It’s as though our lips hold everything unsaid. Her hands roam my skin, heavy and wanting, and filled with a strange mix of sweet strawberry and something darker. Hungrier.
But more than anything, the kiss aches all the way to my heart.
It hurts like knives and blades and paper cuts. How can some kisses heal and some kisses hurt?
This kiss tears my heart in two.
My eyes well because I know what this is. That this isn’t just a kiss, it isn’t just making love.
It’s saying goodbye.
“Eleanor,” I gasp against her mouth. “Don’t do this.”
I kiss her again, my hands finding her neck, her jaw, tugging at her hair, like that will make her understand.
If I plead hard enough, maybe she’ll stay.
“No talking,” she says, as if that’s enough to make me forget the way she’s kissing me. The way her hands grip my body, tugging and pulling at my clothes, my skin.
She wants me. Owns me. Is still letting me go.
The tears fall, but I can’t bring myself to stop them. I need this. Need her. All of us, even if this is the last time, I’ll have it.
I want to carve her touch into my memory. Make the shape of her a scar on my heart, so I never forget.
She tugs my dress over my head and lays me on the makeshift bed we pulled together of sofa cushions and blankets.
I return the favour, yanking at her shirt buttons until they pop open and free her ample breasts.
Her nipples are tight, and I feast my eyes on them, like I feast on the rest of her. I commit every inch of skin, every cell in her body to memory.
Eleanor is crying too now, only her tears are silent. They make her ocean blue eyes bright, intoxicating.
She doesn’t graze my skin with kisses the way she normally does. She doesn’t waste time on making me excited. Instead, she dives between my legs, plunging her mouth over my most intimate parts.
She’s rough, her hunger making her devour me. This isn’t making love anymore. This is fucking.
Her mouth owns me the same way her hands did earlier. She swipes her tongue along my centre like she’s marking me. Leaving trails of sensation between my legs that I know will never leave my body. She gifts me a shadow of her touch that I’ll never forget.
She thrusts a thick finger inside me, filling me, making me moan. Everything about this is new and different, and I crave it. How can something feel so good and hurt so much all at once?
