Page 59 of Nine Months to Love
“That’s not from the cold.”
He pauses, blanket in hand, and really looks at me. His brown-and-blue eyes search my face. Water still clings to his eyelashes, and a droplet traces the scar along his jaw before disappearing into the dark stubble there.
“Olivia—”
“Please, if you care about me at all, don’t overthink this. Not tonight.”
“I’m not the one overthinking.”
He’s right, of course. My brain is spinning out a thousand different scenarios, calculating risks and consequences. What happens after tonight? What happens when the sun comes up and we have to face all the lies and secrets still festering between us? What happens when?—
Stefan’s hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away a water droplet I pretend is from the ocean. “Like that. Stop. I can practically hear the gears in your head grinding.”
“Sorry my brain doesn’t come with an off switch.”
“You’re wrong about that. It does, and I know a few ways to flip it.”
He’s about me being wrong, and he’s right about him having his hands on my controls—literally, metaphorically, sexually, emotionally, all the “-allys.” And that’s going to be the death of me.
Because I understand exactly what he’s offering, and damn my soul to hell, I crave it. Crave him. Crave the obliteration of thought, the sweet annihilation of finally surrendering to sensation instead of drowning in the relentless torture of my own mind.
“Then do it,” I whisper. “Make me stop thinking.”
That’s all the invitation a man like him needs. He drops the blanket and hauls me against him, skin to skin, and the shock of warmth makes me gasp.
His mouth finds mine, and this kiss is nothing like the playful ones during our truth-or-dare game. This is fucking savage.
His hands tangle in my wet hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. I taste champagne and ocean salt, feel the lightning-bolt tremor in his muscles as he struggles to hold himself back. Always holding back, even now.
“Stefan,” I breathe against his mouth, “I’m not made of glass.”
“No,” he agrees, crawling on top of me. “You’re made of something much more dangerous.”
The weight of him, the solid reality of his body covering mine, makes everything else fade away. Down here, there are no basement mysteries, no criminal empires, no stolen clinics. Just this—just us, skin and breath and the desperate need to get closer, closer, always closer.
His mouth travels down my throat, nipping and sucking. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my collarbone.
“You know what I want.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You. I want you.”
He pulls back to look at me. “You have me.”
We both know it’s not true—not really. I have pieces of him, fragments he’s chosen to share, but never the whole truth. Never all of him.
But for tonight, I’ll take what I can get.
I pull him back down, kissing him with all the frustration and longing I’ve been carrying for weeks. He responds immediately, his control finally, blessedly cracking. His hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of my waist, the inside of my thigh, the sensitive spot behind my knee that makes me shiver.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
“Stefan—”
“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” he snarls, almost as if he’s angry at me for it. “Do you have any idea what you’ve turned me into?”
“What have I turned you into?”
