Page 76 of Infamous
His lips crash against mine like a man drowning who’s justfound air, and yet somehow, he’s the one taking my breath. He kisses me like it’s a necessity - like this is oxygen, and I am the last source left available to him.
His hand slides up the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, gripping just tight enough to make me gasp. That sound - small, involuntary - seems to undo something in him. The tension he’s been holding, that impossible restraint, fractures.
And then the kiss deepens.
It’s chaos and hunger and memory all at once. His mouth moves with a kind of precision that feels almost practiced - too familiar, too right. His lips mold to mine like he’s done this before, like he knows exactly how I like to be kissed, exactly how long to hover before he presses harder, exactly how to tilt my chin so his tongue can slide past my lips and taste me.
When he does, the world disappears.
My back hits the wall. I don’t remember moving. Maybe he pushed me there, maybe I stumbled. But it doesn’t matter. All that exists now is the feel of him - the solid weight of his body against mine, the heat of his chest pressed to my ribs, the way his breath hitches against my skin like he’s afraid this moment isn’t real.
His hand moves, slow and deliberate, down the column of my throat, over my collarbone, until his palm flattens against my stomach.
That hand - broad, heavy, trembling just slightly - covers so much of me it feels like he’s staking a claim. Like he’s sayingthis is mine,not with words, but with the way his touch burns into me.
The heat of his palm seeps through the fabric of my shirt, leaving trails of fire in its wake. He isn’t just touching me; he’s learning me - mapping every curve, every breath, every shiver.
He kisses me deeper, harder, until I swear I can feel him inmy bloodstream. The kiss turns from desperate to dangerous. There’s an edge to it, a warning, like he’s teetering on the brink of something unholy and I’m the only thing tethering him to this earth.
And still, I don’t pull away. I can’t. Because every time his mouth moves against mine, I feel something unspool inside me. Something I’ve kept locked away for years. Grief. Loneliness. Desire. It all comes rushing out at once, and I let it.
His kiss is a storm - violent, consuming - and I am its willing casualty.
When he finally breaks away, it’s not because he wants to. It’s because we have to.
He leans his forehead against mine, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like he’s just fought for his life. His lips hover against mine, still close enough that every exhale from him tastes like heat and ruin.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The silence is electric, alive, dangerous.
Then he whispers, voice hoarse and raw, “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming in my ears. My hands are still tangled in his shirt, and I realize I’ve been holding on like if I let go, he’ll vanish.
Maybe he will.
But right now, he’s real. His body is solid, his breath is warm, and his kiss still lingers on my mouth like a brand I’ll never wash away.
I don’t know what spell he’s cast on me, what madness this is, but if he’s stealing my soul with every kiss, then I’ll let him.
Because somewhere deep down, in the hollow of my chest, I already know - it belonged to him long before tonight.
46
LUCIAN
Icarry her through the dark hall, her breath shallow against my collarbone, the faint tremor in her limbs ghosting through my skin. She’s weightless but heavy with everything she’s survived.
I lay her down on the edge of the bed and her head tips slightly, eyes half-open, searching my face like she’s trying to place me in a dream that keeps slipping away.
Maybe she already knows.
Somewhere deep down, past the fog and the pain, maybe her mind remembers what her heart’s trying to forget - who I am, what I’ve done.
Her lips part like she wants to ask, but nothing comes out. Just a broken exhale that sounds too much like surrender.
I tell myself I should leave. I should walk out before she opens her eyes and sees the truth reflected in mine. But I don’t move. I just stand there, breathing her air like it’s a sin, watching the rise and fall of her chest - proof she’s still here, still alive, and I don’t know if that makes me her savior or her curse.
She’s still on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping thesheet, her pulse fluttering against her throat. Her fear isn’t loud; it’s quiet, electric. It hums through the room like static.
