Page 53 of Murder

Why is he doing this?

He’s lonely…

So am I.

His fingers stroke my shoulder once more, and my stomach tightens. I can feel him take a long breath—and then he pulls me closer, curving his wrist so the rough, warm fingertips of the hand that’s cupping my shoulder straighten out and drift over my neck.

I’m struggling to breathe around the knot in my throat when he pulls his arm out from around me, and shifts so he’s kneeling in front of me. His hands cup my elbows, roving up from there. One comes to rest on my collarbone; the other spreads over my throat.

“What do you want with me?” The words are almost groaned. They strike straight to my heart, which stops, then takes off at a gallop.

“What do you mean?” I murmur, looking at his solemn face.

His eyes shut.

“What do you mean?” I whisper, gently. I reach a hand out, stroking his warm neck.

His eyes open. His hands frame my face—gently—and I feel his rough cheek brush against mine. His arms encircle me and then his mouth is near my ear. I can hear and feel him take a deep breath; so deep it’s almost like a gasp.

I pull him close, his face against my shoulder, his huge torso bowed around me. I find I have to swallow before I speak, and even then, my voice is raspy. “I don’t want anything from you, Bear.” My hand rubs a circle on his back.

His breath tickles my shoulder. “Why are you so kind?” It’s almost groaned.

My heart squeezes painfully. I hold him tighter. “I’m not…that way. I’m just…” I cup his head, shaking mine—because it’s all I can manage.

He leans against me, and I take him. With one shoulder pressed against the window, I take all his heavy weight, so I can feel it when he shudders.

“What’s the matter?”

“I feel like I’m dreaming. None of this…feels real.”

I hold him tightly, aching at the raw pain in his voice. I stroke his nape. “I think you’re tired,” I whisper.

I kiss his hair. I don’t mean to, but here he is—his big, heavy, beautiful body cradled up against me, just the way I’ve wanted since I met him.

It’s such a small kiss, so fast and light, it takes me a long moment to realize that since I pressed my lips against him, I can feel him breathing faster.

“You should go home, Gwenna.”

“Why?” I whisper.

He lifts his head and frames my face with his hands, lifting my chin so we’re eye to eye—and I can see his heavy-lidded ones. “Because you’re right. I’m tired. And I don’t have a lot of self-control.”

SEVENTEEN

GWENNA

My body flares white hot as his words roll through my mind. It’s been so long since anyone— I think I haven’t heard him right.

Then his forehead presses against mine. His arms encircle me, warm hands stroking up and down along my sides. His dazed eyes cling to mine, and they are more transparent than I’ve ever seen them. I feel like I can read his whole soul in their smoky depths: want and need, shame, exhaustion.

He doesn’t love you, warns an inner voice.

But this feels so good, it feels so right, and I’m so hungry for him, I don’t care.

“You’re so fucking sweet and soft.” His voice is low, and as he speaks, his eyes drift almost shut. Then they peek back open, and I feel the soft burn of his mouth on my throat, so gentle I can’t tell if it’s his tongue or lips.

“It’s okay,” I rasp, grasping his hair.

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