Page 105 of The Kiss of Deception

It sounds like a confession and the beginning of our downfall. But then, it feels like we’ve been falling for a long, long time.

I know I have.

From the first time I saw Zoe Beatrice Westwood, I was doomed.

“Okay,” Zoe promises.

I close my eyes, rolling my forehead on hers as I draw in a deep breath, allowing the flowers in her shampoo to dislodge the tension that tightens my muscles. “Jesus, you’ll be the death of me.”

Fear evaporates in the steamy air of the bathroom into tiny drops of condensation as they race in vertical lines down the mirrors and window glass. The tension remains, unrelenting. It morphs and blends into a palpable scorching flame stoked by our every breath.

The playlist moves on, indifferent to the world of things exchanged inside these four walls. Fallingforyou by The 1975, I distantly recognize.

Sensing the shift in the air, Zoe’s nails become claws in my scalp. The water moves to the tide of her ragged breaths, bubbles lapping at her collarbones like sea foam in the wake of violently breaking waves.

I pull back, though every bone complains at the loss of her warm heartbeat, and look at her.

Zoe is clad nothing but a thin layer of bubbles. Her curls are the blackest black ink, tinged by the water droplets running marathons towards where half of the length is drowned. Her dainty foot still rests on the rim of the tub, a blurry trail of light red, water and blood, painting pristine porcelain. The foamy water hits mid-thigh, exposing her toned leg to me, wet and glistening as the droplets of water glide down smooth golden skin.

The sun is blurry through the large windows, playing with the greens and blues of her eyes in a hypnotic spell until I believe I see in them what she sees in mine.

Fuck.

She will be the death of me.

Blood flees every corner of my blood, furiously shooting for my groin, as we bathe in this brewing knowledge that this thing between us is no longer one-sided.

It has never been.

Slow, slow, slowly, I dip to kiss her, giving her all the torturous time in the world to push me away. Her heavy lashes fall to my lips on their way to close, and I think she’ll let me. I see it in her thinning breaths through parted lips.

She’ll let me kiss her like I’ve been so desperate to.

That’s what I am—desperation.

To stay away, aware she deserves better than someone who only brings destruction to her door.

To stay close and become everything she deserves.

I’ve disrupted her peace, her safety, weaseling my way into her life because I selfishly had to have her. I brought nothing but chaos and crisis to her door.

She’d be better off far, far away from me.

And still, I can’t make myself leave.

Desperation grows, fueled with determination. I will kiss her, if she lets me. And if she lets me, I will hone myself into the man she deserves with my bare hands if necessary.

The startling sound of her ringtone puts the music on pause, upsetting the water surrounding her into tiny tidal waves. Our noses briefly brush as Zoe adjusts in the tub, the long since tepid water singing my skin.

“We’re late for lunch with Grandpa,” she croaks out through the tsunami.

“Fuck,” I groan. “This isn’t over.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Miles

I have yet to find something I can’t love about Zoe, even the things I don’t like.

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