Page 49 of Flirting with Darkness

His hands had come up to my face. He held me firmly, so I couldn’t look away from him.

I could always see the moment things changed, once they knew—the moment they started grieving me while I was still alive, the moment me standing in front of them stopped being enough.

But his gaze was firm.

“Whatever you wish to give me,” he repeated, slowly, like he wanted to make sure I understood. “I’ll have it.”

I didn’t know that I had been waiting my entire life to hear those words until now.

I wasn’t accustomed to goodbyes. I never thought I would need to be the one to say them. It’s so much easier to be the one who leaves first.

I could leave now and spare myself a goodbye I wasn’t ready for.

But instead, I put my hands on either side of Vale’s face, a mirror of how he held me.

I pulled him close, and I kissed him.

19

Iwasn’t sure why I had expected the kiss to be fierce and animalistic, but that first one was quiet, gentle. Sweet.

Vale’s lips were softer than I thought they’d be. His beard tickled my chin. First he just brushed his mouth over mine, like he wanted to start by knowing the shape of it, knowing the way I tasted.

His lips parted, the kiss deepening, the touch of his tongue—shockingly shy—meeting mine. My head was cloudy and fuzzy in a way that had nothing to do with my exhaustion.

A serrated breath ghosted over my lips—and that, that one little sign of the intensity of his desire, lit something on fire inside me. Suddenly Vale’s closeness, the warmth of his bare skin, the taste of him, the smell of him, overwhelmed me.

A tiny, wordless sound escaped my throat, and I kissed him back this time. Harder. Deeper.

He met my fervor with enough enthusiasm to leave me breathless.

He held my face firmly, his tongue exploring my mouth, each kiss bleeding into the other. Gods, I had never kissed anyone like this—each movement so intuitive. I never had to stop and guess what he wanted. It was the kind of ease I thought other people must always feel.

One of his hands moved to the back of my head, tangling in my hair. The other wandered down to my waist, his thumb slipping between the buttons of my shirt, brushing my bare skin. That one touch made me gasp.

His tongue rolled against mine, then he withdrew. In my fervor, we’d both fallen to the bed.

Everything was hazy, distant.

“You’re injured,” I said softly.

His chuckle was low and thick. “Incredible how much better I already feel.”

But his smile faded, and he gave me a long stare—and I knew what this wordless silence meant, the question he was asking.

I parted my thighs, opening myself to the rigid press of his desire between us.

His eyes darkened, the desire in them so sharp it cut me open, and it occurred to me that maybe I should be afraid—that maybe the hunger I was seeing in Vale’s expression, feeling in the way he held me to the bed, was about more than sex.

I wasn’t, though. No, the fear came from somewhere else. Not from Vale’s roughness, but his tenderness.

He smoothed a strand of hair from my forehead.

“You’re shaking, mouse.”

I slid my fingertips beneath the waistband of his trousers, a light touch over the flesh of his abdomen—soft skin, hard muscle, trembling faintly.

“So are you.”

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