Page 20 of The Space Between
He approaches me like he’s fighting it, dragging it out of himself one step at a time.
He doesn’t ask to sit with me. He just drops onto the towel beside me and leans back on his hands. We both stare at the river.
Neither of us speak until I break the silence. “Did you know,” I murmur, “the human body can detect touch even when it hasn’t been made yet?”
He glances at me before quickly looking away. His body is as tight as a wire.
“The space between,” I say. “The hover. Thealmost.Our skin feels it. Our nerves anticipate it.”
He shifts slightly, his arm barely brushing against mine. I don’t know if it was intentional.
“So, if I didthis—” I move my fingers a breath from his thigh “—you’d feel it.”
“I already do,” he grits out. His voice is low… hoarse.
I swallow hard. “Why haven’t you kissed me? You want to. I want you to.” I’m breathless.
“Because I wouldn’t stop.” He growls.
My pulse stutters. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
He looks at me—really looks, and something inside him breaks.
He grabs my face like he’s drowning and his hands on my cheeks are his lifeline.
His lips crash into mine like they’ve been waiting too long, held back too hard, and now they’re done asking for permission. He’s not rough. He’sdesperate.
So am I. Ipullhim into me. His weight, his hands, his mouth—I want all of it.
My fingers fist in the sweaty fabric of his shirt as he pushes me back onto the towel, his body half covers mine. Though it’s also like he’s half holding himself back.
I taste coffee on his breath. I smell the river and outside on his skin. And I feel the quake in his shoulders.
He kisses like a man who remembers what loss tastes like… like he knows exactly how fragile a mouth can be. And mine opens for him without question.
His tongue slides over and around mine. Slow. Hungry. Worship and war all in one.
Gasping, I arch under him, my chest pressing into his, my nipples beading and poking into his pecs. He groans like ithurtsin the most delicious way.
He pulls back an inch. Just an inch and my hands press against his back, holding him in place.
“Fuck, Blakelyn,” he breathes. “I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“But youare. Weare.” I moan, arching into him, completely uncaring of how wanton I look.
“I can’t be gentle.” He growls.
“I’m not asking you to be.” I reply.
He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to mine and whispers the one thing I didn’t know I needed to hear, “I don’t want you to feel likehishands are on you.”
“They don’t.” I respond instantly.
They don’t. Gruene is all I can think about.
He opens his eyes, staring down at me. And this time, when he kisses me, it’s slower… deeper.
His lips cling to mine. His hands are on the ground on either side of my hips, holding his weight off of me. My hands are in his hair, cupping his neck, his cheeks, gliding over his shoulders and back. And still we kiss. His tongue slides over mine before exploring the recesses of my mouth. Mine traces his teeth and dances with his tongue. Then, he presses his lips to mine, soft, reverent, like he’s putting the pieces of me… of himself… back together one touch of our lips and tongue at a time. Like he’schoosingto feel again.
