Page 14 of The Mountains Edge

Because you make me want impossible things. Because you see too much.

"The finish won't match itself," I growl instead.

"Coward." But she leads me to the table, hips swaying. "Your hands are shaking," She notices as I rub my hand over the table.

"Cut myself earlier."

"Let me see."

Before I can stop her, she takes my hand as she examines the wound.

"First aid kit's upstairs."

"It's fine."

"Marcus." That tone again. "Upstairs. Now."

The stairs creak as I follow her to her apartment above the store. I've never been up here, it feels intimate, crossing this threshold.

Her space is all soft lights and cozy chaos. Books everywhere, half-unpacked boxes, bits of the store's history she's salvaged. A big bed dominates one corner, heaped with quilts.

I stop in the doorway, suddenly unsure.

Daisy rummages in the bathroom, returning with supplies. "Sit."

I take the safer option of her chair. She stands between my legs, cleaning the cut with careful hands.

"You could have called," she says softly. "After you left in a hurry with Jake. Let me know you were okay."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" Her fingers trace old scars on my palm. "Because you look like you haven't slept."

I haven't. Not since I held her against that wall, tasting her skin.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" Her thumb strokes my wrist. "Care?"

"You can't fix me."

"Did I say I wanted to?" She steps closer, still holding my hand. "Maybe I just want you. Broken pieces and all."

The words hit hard. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

My free hand finds her hip, fingers digging into soft flesh.

"Last chance to run," I warn.

Instead of answering, she straddles my lap.

The position brings her core against me, thin cotton the only barrier. My hands slide under the flannel, confirming my suspicions about what she's not wearing.

"God you’re perfect."

"Touch me." She rocks against me. "Please."

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