Page 35 of The Lottery

And yet, I have never wanted anything more.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

The question slices into me like a heated blade. I cannot begin to tell her my thoughts without annihilating what little line remains between us.

I should not.

I shall not.

“I am thinking…”

About you. About your eyes, and hair, and scent, and body.

“About you.”

The words are out of my mouth before I know what to do with them. Azalea’s eyes grow wide, and I realize I cannot leave those words to stand on their own.

“Oh?”

I sigh. There is no mystery. My secrets are exposed. The moment I took her hand to make sure she knew I had no partner, I made my feelings clear. We can dance around the conversation as long as we like, but I cannot pretend this beautiful, brilliant, intuitive woman does not see right through me.

I lean in. Only an inch. Testing the waters.

She does not move.

I close the distance more.

She blinks.

I am close enough to feel the breeze of her breath. It hitches.

We are each living on scraps of breath, taking in only enough air to survive, lest a single inhale disrupt this moment.

I bring my lips to hers, and she does not retreat.

As our mouths meet, I return to the blissful state of pure existence, my mind nowhere but here, no sense of the universe beyond the exquisite creature in front of me and the soft lips touching my own.

Blood rushes through my tingling body.

I inhale her breath into me as I deepen the kiss, parting her lips a sliver with the tip of my tongue, bringing my hand to cup her cheek, my other reaching around her waist to pull her closer.

She groans, her mouth opening for me, the taste of her like dark chocolate and rich red wine. Her tongue slicks against mine and my pants tighten uncomfortably at the touch. At the instant arousal she produces in me.

This kiss is everything, and yet I want—need—so much more.

I feel a rumble inside me, our contact shifting the tectonic plates of my soul, making every piece of me tremble.

Our lips part, but the quaking remains.

And now there is a sound to it.

My eyes lock with Azalea’s, whose face shows the same mix of ecstasy and concern.

The shaking is not from our kiss.

It is coming from the ship.

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