Page 42 of Sweet Nightmare

Jude, in the meantime, just looks disappointed. He takes a step back from me and lets his hand fall. I can see it in his eyes—can see him taking a giant mental step back at the same time as he takes the physical.

My heart kicks against my ribs in protest and panic, but I tamp it down. The old Clementine would try to tear down his emotional wall brick by brick. Terrified to lose him to his own darkness.

Not just would. Did. Over and over again until that wall became a permanent fixture.

No way am I doing it again.

No matter how hot he looks with droplets of water running down his firm, sculpted chest, with those wisps of tattoos creeping across the canvas of his warm, brown skin.

And he does look hot. Very, very hot. But I don’t care right now. More, I won’t let myself care. Not when he just admitted that he upended my whole world because he doesn’t think we’ll work, even though he never gave us a chance. And somehow that makes everything so much worse than it already was.

“What makes you so sure we wouldn’t work?” I’m on a roll now, and there’s no stopping me. “Did you read it in a magazine? Did some witch riding on the back of a newt tell you? Or did you just make it up?”

Jude’s full lips thin out. It’s an old, familiar sign that he’s getting annoyed, but I don’t give a shit. I’m glad he’s annoyed. If he ratchets that up about two million percent, maybe he’ll get on my level. Because I left annoyed in the rearview mirror about five questions ago, and I don’t think I’ll be going back to it anytime soon.

“‘I’d be your worst nightmare,’” I parrot. “A little on the nose for an oneiroi, don’t you think? And a magicless one, come to—”

But it’s his turn to interrupt. “I’m not m—”

Too bad, I’m not having it. “You think that’s supposed to scare me away like I’m some wilting flower? Big, bad Jude Abernathy-Lee is my worst nightmare,” I mock. “If you didn’t want to date me, you just had to tell me! That’s all you’ve ever had to—”

“Enough, Clementine!” Jude’s voice fills the air around us. He doesn’t yell, but then, he doesn’t have to. His voice is deep and rich and commanding enough to get even my attention—though not my acquiescence.

“Enough?” I fire back. “I’m just getting started. In fact—”

This time when he takes hold of my arm, he doesn’t give me a chance to pull away. Instead, he tugs me just hard enough to have me tumbling against his chest.

I have one second to recognize that my body is pressed against his, one second for my mind to conjure words like hot, hard, strong, and then his hands are cupping my cheeks and his mouth is slamming down on mine.

It’s been three long years since I’ve felt Jude’s lips touch my own, but I remember it as clearly as if it happened an hour ago.

The tentative brush of his lips against mine.

The soft tickle of his hair brushing against my cheek.

The warmth of his arms around me as he gently pulled me closer.

It was barely more than a peck, but still I used to lay in bed at night, replaying that moment—that kiss—in my head, over and over and over again as I tried to figure out what went wrong. Every tiny detail of it is ingrained in my mind forever.

So when I say this kiss is nothing like its predecessor, I really mean it. More, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Like nothing I ever dreamed was even possible.

There’s heat. So much heat, radiating from his body to mine.

There’s power. So much power in the hands that cradle my face.

And then there’s need. So, so, so much need in the mouth—in the lips and tongue and teeth—that ravage my own.

And I’m here for all of it. Because if I have to live on this kiss for the rest of my life—I’m not going to miss one tiny second of it.

More, I’m going to memorize every single one of them.

I’ll remember the way one of Jude’s hands slides over my shoulder, down my arm, and across my waist to the small of my back as he presses my body closer…closer…closer to his.

I’ll remember the way his fingers smooth over my shoulders and tangle in my wet hair as he holds the back of my head in his palm.

And I’ll remember—oh my God, will I ever remember—the way his warm, lemon-scented breath feels on my cheek just before his lips cover mine.

And this time, it’s no soft brush of lip against lip.

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