Page 32 of These White Lies
“A few.”
She steps back and sits on the desk again, spreading her knees.
Jesus.
I’m not sure I’m going to survive this night.
Unhooking her bra, I let the lace slide down her arms. Her breasts are high and full, tipped in dusky pink, and I lean inwithout thinking, dragging my tongue over one taut nipple. She moans, arching into me, and I suck it into my mouth, gentle and then harder, letting my teeth graze just enough to make her moan.
Her fingers tangle in my hair again, pulling tight.
“Please,” she begs.
I take a step closer, her thighs still spread for me where she’s seated on the desk. Her breath catches, and I can see the exact moment her pulse kicks up under the soft skin of her throat.
I kiss down her torso, pausing at her hipbone, and that’s when I see her own tattoo.
A tiny bug tucked low beside the curve of her pelvis.
“What is it?” I murmur, brushing it with my thumb.
“A lightning bug.” She lets out a low, throaty chuckle that damn near undoes me. “You’d probably call it a firefly, though.”
I hum in response, letting the vibration settle into her skin. Then, I press my mouth to the ink and trace the shape with my tongue.
“It’s cute. Does it mean something?”
My fingers slide lower, parting her gently. She gasps, and her thighs tighten against my shoulders when my finger dips inside before retreating.
“Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, but she gasps when I press a kiss just below the tattoo. “It’s not important.”
I hover, my mouth and fingers inches from where she’s wet and wanting. But I don’t move closer.
Not yet.
Her hips lift toward me, pleading without words.
I chuckle, letting the warm air graze her. “Not until you tell me.”
She moans, frustrated. The sound is intoxicating, and again I wish we had more time. That my life wasn’t a complete clusterfuck right now.
“I was young. I thought it was meaningful at the time.” Her voice is strained, almost defensive. “Back when I thought I would set the world on fire.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, pressing my lips to the spot again. “I like that.”
She’s trembling under my hands.
“More like barely a spark now,” she mumbles. “It’s pretty much extinguished.”
I go still. Then look up at her.
Her eyes are shadowed behind the mask, but there’s no mistaking the emotion in her voice. That sharp edge of fatigue and vulnerability.
“You still burn,” I insist. “From the second you walked in, I couldn’t look away from your light.”
She shakes her head, lashes lowering. “Burning all the time is exhausting.” Her voice cracks, and I feel it in my chest.
“I think I’d be happy to flicker, like a firefly,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Be a happy little light, but blaze when needed.”
