Page 23 of Searching for Hope

Every cell in my body sparks and burns. It’s as though before this kiss there was nothing to me, just a mess of bodily parts and flesh. But now, here in his arms, with his mouth sliding over mine, I’ve come alive.

Lust and desire dance through my veins. Jericho deepens our kiss. A low moan passes from his mouth to mine. My hands fist in his hair, the need for him manifesting as desperation. His lips move over my face, tracing the curve of my jaw, the hollow of my cheek, the rise of my cheekbone. Gripping my face, he tilts his forehead, resting it against mine.

“I thought I could resist you.” He kisses me again. His lips are soft but firm. Demanding yet patient. “I was wrong.”

“I never considered resisting you,” I say.

And then his lips are on me again.

I didn’t know a kiss could be gentle and yet so raw. I didn’t know it could arouse such intense feelings of need. His kiss both sates and feeds my hunger. I feel both starved and fulfilled. There’s a tightness in my chest. An explosion of emotion and desire that’s threatening to spill over.

Then his phone rings, breaking the moment between us. Jericho tears his lips away, staying with his forehead pressed to mine, our heavy breaths rising and falling.

“Don’t answer it,” I plead, staring into those eyes that remind me of the night sky. They are filled with both darkness and beauty. Both shadows and light.

He runs his hands down my face and tilts my mouth to his. “I need to take this.” His kiss is tender, and I chase it as he moves away, leaning into the space he used to be. How something so ordinary could interrupt something so magical is beyond me.

“Thanks for returning my call,” he says, his voice controlled and even, although his gaze is directed at me. His eyes run over my body, my flesh burning where his look lingers.

I’m still pressed against the wall, my heart pounding, my body feeling like it’s been doused in desire and set alight. Jericho’s hair is disheveled. His shirt is bunched at his neck where I crushed it between my fingers. But it’s the way he’s looking at me that has my breath stuck in my throat. There’s no hesitation. No regret.

There’s nothing but need.

When the conversation begins to get heated, he turns away, his silhouette framed by the dim light coming through the window.

“I told you I could get it to you in a week,” he says between gritted teeth.

The normality of the situation sinks in. I’m here. Waiting for him. Pressed against the wall as he talks on the phone.

I feel out of place.

A hindrance.

Foolish.

I begin to move toward the door, torn between wanting to stay and thinking I need to leave. He glances over his shoulder and shakes his head, just one motion, but it’s enough to make me freeze.

He keeps talking, his voice getting louder, more aggressive. He paces, running his free hand over his face and through his hair time and time again. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look weary, the first hint that this endless hunt is getting to him.

I curl into the chair opposite his desk again. It’s cold, so I bring my knees to my chest, pulling my t-shirt over them. While still talking on the phone, Jericho walks over to a cupboard and pulls out a sweater. It’s gray and plain. He holds it out to me, nodding I should put it on as he continues to argue with the person on the other end of the phone. I shrug the sweater over my head. It’s so large that even when I hook it over my knees like the t-shirt, I’m still drowning in it. And it smells like him. I don’t know what his scent is. Something musky, something masculine with just a hint of sweetness.

He throws his cell phone onto the desk once he’s done and lowers himself to his knees before my chair. I drop my legs as his arms come to circle my waist, his head resting on my lap. There’s something uniquely vulnerable about the act. It’s unexpected. I run my fingers through his hair, letting my nails scrape across his scalp. The tightness of his embrace increases.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, my voice almost a whisper, afraid to break this connection between us.

“Finding Hope is going to destroy me.” He nuzzles into my lap, creating sparks of heat to burn between my legs.

“Tell me about her,” I say.

“About Hope?” His breath warms my thighs.

“About Hope.” I run my fingers through his hair.

He buries his face deep into my lap and sighs before he gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

I take his hand and follow him up the stairs. His grip is firm. His flesh is warm. We pass by the level that the staff lives on, pass the level which contains Ette’s room and up another flight of stairs. There’s a long and narrow hallway, elevated and exposed over the ballroom, the basis of support for the chandeliers below. We walk along the suspended bridge and through the oversized doors.

“I haven’t furnished it yet,” Jericho says as we step into the cavernous room.

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