He spoke slowly, as if to make sure I understood, and each word sent a tantalizingly intimate puff of breath against my ear. “Yes, you are. Loud, stubborn, and infuriating at times, but almost too beautiful to look at.”
I heard what he was saying, and some part of my brain even processed it. But at the time, his meaning seemed much less important than the sound of his voice, a deep rumble rolling through me, triggering responses in al the right places, the way the rippling surge of an earthquake wil sometimes set off burglar alarms.
“And you came back,” he said, chin stubble scratching my shoulder.
“I came back.” Something was wrong with that. Damn it, something was wrong with that statement, but for my life I couldn’t remember what. And in that moment, I just didn’t care.
“I need to feel something real. I need you, Faythe,” he said, his lips brushing my cheek as his fingers tangled themselves around mine, clinging desperately. I heard the pain in his voice, the raw need for so much more than I had to give, and my chest tightened.
I’d never been needed. Not by anyone, much less by someone whose entire purpose in life was to be strong for everyone else, and I liked the feeling of power that gave me, the feeling of strength. He was asking for my help, and—so help me—I wanted to give it to him. I wanted to make everything okay, and let him do the same for me. I didn’t just want it. I needed it. I needed something familiar, something warm and strong to help me forget and make me feel safe. I needed Marc. And al I had to do was admit it.
“I need you, too.” It was true when I said it, and even drunk I wondered why I hadn’t realized it earlier. Oh, the miracle of alcohol! Everything that had seemed so terribly, hopelessly complicated when I was sober was suddenly so simple. I needed him and the memory of what we’d been, the memory of something safe, and substantial, and good. Something I understood, when life as I knew it was fal ing apart at my feet. I understood Marc; he wouldn’t fal apart. For me, he’d hold it together. The least I could do was return the favor.
He kissed me, and I didn’t just let him, I kissed him back. We fed from each other with an urgency born of starvation, of desperation. I couldn’t touch enough of him, couldn’t reach deep enough to soothe myself, to bury my pain in memories of pleasure. But I could try.
I hid my face in his neck, drowning in his scent. He smelled like masculinity personified, like musk and unscented soap and something else, something powerful, and dangerous, and exciting. I breathed him in, and the thril ing combination of danger and absolute security tingled through me, igniting every nerve ending in my body. I felt like a kid holding a lit firecracker, wondering if he could handle the charge, and whether or not he’d get burned.
My hands found his chest, and his found my hair. He pulled my head back and kissed the length of my throat, hesitating just a moment over my pulse, flicking his tongue against my skin as if the thin flesh covering my jugular vein tasted just a little sweeter than al the rest.
Ohhh, and it did. It must have, because his did too.
“We’re trying to concentrate here,” Ethan grumbled from the floor, momentarily breaking the spel . I pulled away from Marc long enough to glance at my brother. He looked disappointed for a moment, but then he nodded at me as if something had been decided.
Had something been decided?
Before I could think it through, Ethan turned back to the video game, his thumbs executing a complicated series of movements on the controller even as he spoke. “Get a room.”
A room. That was a great idea. My room was occupied, but Marc’s was empty, and it was right upstairs. We kissed al the way up the steps, and only his grip on the banister and around my waist kept us moving forward instead of tumbling to the hardwood floor.
We paused on the landing at the top of the stairs, where he pinned my hips to the wal with his body while he pulled my shirt off, tossing it to the floor. His motions were hurried, frantic, and I understood the reason. If we hesitated, we’d have to think, and neither of us wanted to think. We wanted to feel, to lose ourselves in something al -consuming, something powerful enough to block out reality, and the pain and fear it would inevitably bring. And together we were explosive.
Before, that had been part of the problem, but now it was the solution. It was the fireworks-in-thesky, forget-your-own-name, can’t-feel-your-toes solution to al my problems. At least for the moment.
We stumbled past the bedroom Vic usual y shared with Jace, and I barely registered the sound of slow, sleep-regulated breathing. By contrast, Marc’s breath was hot and fast, almost a pant. His room was at the front of the house, the last one we came to, and he was impatient by then. He picked me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, rounding my spine so I could reach his ear with my tongue. He moaned as he carried me into his room, barely pausing to kick the door shut before setting me gently on the floor.
The hardwood was cool against my bare feet; it acted as an anchor, tethering my body to the ground as my head floated far above my shoulders. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the feel of his hands running al over me, ridding me of the encumbrance of my shorts, the restriction of my bra. Dropping to his knees, Marc wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his head on my stomach as he clung to me, trembling silently.
I gasped to feel him lift my breast, bringing as much as he could into his mouth. He pulled gently on my nipple, his tongue hot against my skin, his mouth demanding. I moaned, burying my hands in his hair, my head thrown back and my eyes closed.
I heard what he was saying, and some part of my brain even processed it. But at the time, his meaning seemed much less important than the sound of his voice, a deep rumble rolling through me, triggering responses in al the right places, the way the rippling surge of an earthquake wil sometimes set off burglar alarms.
“And you came back,” he said, chin stubble scratching my shoulder.
“I came back.” Something was wrong with that. Damn it, something was wrong with that statement, but for my life I couldn’t remember what. And in that moment, I just didn’t care.
“I need to feel something real. I need you, Faythe,” he said, his lips brushing my cheek as his fingers tangled themselves around mine, clinging desperately. I heard the pain in his voice, the raw need for so much more than I had to give, and my chest tightened.
I’d never been needed. Not by anyone, much less by someone whose entire purpose in life was to be strong for everyone else, and I liked the feeling of power that gave me, the feeling of strength. He was asking for my help, and—so help me—I wanted to give it to him. I wanted to make everything okay, and let him do the same for me. I didn’t just want it. I needed it. I needed something familiar, something warm and strong to help me forget and make me feel safe. I needed Marc. And al I had to do was admit it.
“I need you, too.” It was true when I said it, and even drunk I wondered why I hadn’t realized it earlier. Oh, the miracle of alcohol! Everything that had seemed so terribly, hopelessly complicated when I was sober was suddenly so simple. I needed him and the memory of what we’d been, the memory of something safe, and substantial, and good. Something I understood, when life as I knew it was fal ing apart at my feet. I understood Marc; he wouldn’t fal apart. For me, he’d hold it together. The least I could do was return the favor.
He kissed me, and I didn’t just let him, I kissed him back. We fed from each other with an urgency born of starvation, of desperation. I couldn’t touch enough of him, couldn’t reach deep enough to soothe myself, to bury my pain in memories of pleasure. But I could try.
I hid my face in his neck, drowning in his scent. He smelled like masculinity personified, like musk and unscented soap and something else, something powerful, and dangerous, and exciting. I breathed him in, and the thril ing combination of danger and absolute security tingled through me, igniting every nerve ending in my body. I felt like a kid holding a lit firecracker, wondering if he could handle the charge, and whether or not he’d get burned.
My hands found his chest, and his found my hair. He pulled my head back and kissed the length of my throat, hesitating just a moment over my pulse, flicking his tongue against my skin as if the thin flesh covering my jugular vein tasted just a little sweeter than al the rest.
Ohhh, and it did. It must have, because his did too.
“We’re trying to concentrate here,” Ethan grumbled from the floor, momentarily breaking the spel . I pulled away from Marc long enough to glance at my brother. He looked disappointed for a moment, but then he nodded at me as if something had been decided.
Had something been decided?
Before I could think it through, Ethan turned back to the video game, his thumbs executing a complicated series of movements on the controller even as he spoke. “Get a room.”
A room. That was a great idea. My room was occupied, but Marc’s was empty, and it was right upstairs. We kissed al the way up the steps, and only his grip on the banister and around my waist kept us moving forward instead of tumbling to the hardwood floor.
We paused on the landing at the top of the stairs, where he pinned my hips to the wal with his body while he pulled my shirt off, tossing it to the floor. His motions were hurried, frantic, and I understood the reason. If we hesitated, we’d have to think, and neither of us wanted to think. We wanted to feel, to lose ourselves in something al -consuming, something powerful enough to block out reality, and the pain and fear it would inevitably bring. And together we were explosive.
Before, that had been part of the problem, but now it was the solution. It was the fireworks-in-thesky, forget-your-own-name, can’t-feel-your-toes solution to al my problems. At least for the moment.
We stumbled past the bedroom Vic usual y shared with Jace, and I barely registered the sound of slow, sleep-regulated breathing. By contrast, Marc’s breath was hot and fast, almost a pant. His room was at the front of the house, the last one we came to, and he was impatient by then. He picked me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, rounding my spine so I could reach his ear with my tongue. He moaned as he carried me into his room, barely pausing to kick the door shut before setting me gently on the floor.
The hardwood was cool against my bare feet; it acted as an anchor, tethering my body to the ground as my head floated far above my shoulders. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the feel of his hands running al over me, ridding me of the encumbrance of my shorts, the restriction of my bra. Dropping to his knees, Marc wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his head on my stomach as he clung to me, trembling silently.
I gasped to feel him lift my breast, bringing as much as he could into his mouth. He pulled gently on my nipple, his tongue hot against my skin, his mouth demanding. I moaned, burying my hands in his hair, my head thrown back and my eyes closed.
