Page 150 of Misery
He's trying so hard not to spook me. "You can relax. I'm not going to break."
"I know."
But he doesn't relax. Neither do I.
We're both too aware, too careful.
Walking on eggshells made of our own trauma.
"This is stupid," I say, turning to face him. "We're acting like strangers."
"Aren't we? In some ways?"
"No. You know everything about me. Watched me for months. Saw me at my worst, my most vulnerable. And I know you now. The real you."
"And?"
"And I want you. I want you for the rest of my life, Oskar." I kiss him.
Not angry like before.
Not desperate.
Just want, pure and simple.
This is me choosing.
This is me taking back my power, one kiss at a time.
He responds carefully at first, then with more heat when I don't pull away.
My hands explore his chest, those scars I've memorized.
His hands stay frustratingly still at his sides. "Touch me."
"Where?"
"Everywhere.Anywhere. Just stop being so careful."
His control breaks like a dam failing.
Hands sliding over skin, relearning my body with permission this time.
Every touch is question and answer—is this okay? Yes. What about this? God, yes.
When he kisses my neck, I moan.
When his hand cups my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple, I arch into it.
This is what I needed—connection.
"I need more," I tell him.
"Tell me what you need."
"You. Inside me. Now."
"Elfe—"
