Page 100 of Breaking Ophelia
“You hungry?” I ask, voice steady.
“Always,” he says, and there’s a spark in his eyes that I know too well.
I roll mine and gesture at the flats of basil and mint. “You want a salad, go pick your own. I’m busy.”
He pushes off the table, closes the space between us in two steps. His hands are gentle when he grabs my wrist, turning it over to inspect the dirt embedded in my skin.
“Jesus, O,” he says, mock disgust in his voice. “You’re a mess.”
“You love it,” I shoot back, but my pulse hammers in my throat when he brushes the dirt off my palm, thumb pressing into the soft place at the base of my thumb. He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it, slow, and for a second I can’t breathe.
“I do,” he whispers, lips warm against my skin.
This is how it is now: half domestic, half animal, always teetering between the old world and the new one we’ve built. I let myself sink into it.
“Want to help me plant the last row?” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Not really. But I’ll watch you do it.”
I flip him off, then kneel back down, pulling the final flat of jasmine closer. He hovers behind me, close enough that I feel the heat from his body even through the greenhouse oven. I try not to notice, but I do.
There’s comfort in the silence. I finish the row and stand, wiping my hands on my thighs.
“You need a shower,” he smacks my ass before dusting off whatever is stuck to it.
“Maybe I like being dirty.”
He grins, all teeth. “I definitely do.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, loud enough that the sound bounces off the glass and comes back twice as bright.
He pulls me in, arms winding around my waist, lifting me off my feet like I weigh nothing. I yelp, but he’s already kissing me, mouth hot and relentless, tasting of salt and want. I cling to hisshoulders, digging my fingers into the thick muscle there, letting him remind me of all the reasons I fought so hard to stay alive.
“You’re going to break my bench,” I say when he sets me down.
He glances at the bench, then back at me. “I’ll build you a new one.”
I shake my head, breathless and happy in a way that feels dangerous. “You’re an idiot.”
He laughs, and the sound sets my pussy on fire. “You love it.”
And I do.
God help me, I do.
He bites down on my shoulder, not hard but enough to remind me that softness is always an option, never a guarantee. Then he licks the sting away, tongue tracing the bruise he left.
His hands start to wander. Up my ribs, over the swell of my chest, down to my hips. One palm slides under the hem of my tee, the other slips down the front of my leggings, stopping just above the place that aches most for him.
He’s never in a hurry these days. He likes to savor things, to see how long I’ll hold out before I start to beg. It’s infuriating. It’s perfect.
He presses his mouth to the place where my neck meets my shoulder and talks against my skin. “You ever think about what would’ve happened if we’d never met?”
“I’d probably be dead. Or institutionalized.”
He moves his hand lower, fingers just barely grazing the heat between my legs. “You think I saved you?”
I turn, twisting in his arms until I’m facing him. “You ruined me,” I say, and the words are supposed to be an insult, but they come out as a confession.
