Page 151 of Saving Sparrow
Sparrow lifted my chin, and again, the way he stared at me gave me the strength to be vulnerable. “Do I still scare you?”
“Not anymore,” I said, then amended, “not in theway you think.”
He slid a palm along my neck until he reached my nape, his steady, capable fingers burrowing softly into my hair. They stilled after brushing up against the small, circular scar on my scalp. He knew I’d been hurtthatnight, but likely not where. Sparrow massaged it, and I sagged under his touch. I’d forgotten how much I missed surrendering.
His other hand trailed past my temple and hairline in search of the matching wound.
“It’s still in there,” I whispered.
“Is that safe?” He sounded afraid.
“Safer than trying to remove it.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Headaches every now and again.”
His fingers tightened on my hair.
“I’m fine now, Sparrow. It missed the important stuff.”
“I should’ve found and killed them for this,” he whispered. “Whoever they were.”
“Thank you,” I said, gratitude filling my heart. Because his words were another reminder that he no longer believed Quentin and I were the ones who’d hurt Elliott. Sparrow no longer believed we were to blame for him “waking up.”
“I woke up with a gun in my hand,” he said, “and what I thought were dead bodies on the floor.” He shook his head, still rubbing my scar. “I didn’t know.” His words were apologetic. “I didn’t know.” And he still didn’t know what had happened, but he had faith I wasn’t capable of the worst.
I expected him to ask for the truth now, for the details of that night, but he didn’t.
“You’re sleepy,” he said.
“And so are you.” I rested my palms on his cheeks when he prompted me with another glance down at my hands. “So demanding.” I chuckled.
“Your hands are soft.”
“Side effects of being a bookworm,” I said dryly. I skated a hand down to his shoulder, trying to give him some variety. His forehead wrinkled, the lines smoothing away once I brought my hand back to his face. I smiled softly, the gesture catching his attention.
Sparrow’s posture changed, some of his confidence slipping the longer he watched my lips. He licked his own.
“Do you want to kiss me?” I whispered, glad his hands were in my hair and nowhere near the staccato-beating vein at my neck.
“Yes,” he breathed. He didn’t move, just stared wide-eyed at my mouth as though it were a puzzle he couldn’t sort out.
It occurred to me that while I had intimate knowledge of his lips, of what they could do, of what they tasted like, of how swollen and pink his soft skin became after being roughly used… Sparrow himself had never been kissed.
“I can show you how,” I said, which made him flush and bristle.
“I don’t need you to show me.”
“Okay.” I forced myself not to smile. I waited patiently for him, refusing to adhere to the warnings going off in my head in the meantime.
Sparrow closed his eyes, leaning in until his full lips fused with mine. He gave me a gentle peck before sitting back again, his eyes shimmering with excitement. “Was it good?” he asked, as if he didn’t know it could be more.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him, couldn’t help but trace his satisfied grin, couldn’t help but compare his rare show of innocence to Elliott.“Increíble,”I breathed, trying to keep my crumbling emotions out of my tone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means it was amazing.”
