Page 56 of The Vixen

Thorne’s heavy steps approach, and when his giant palms roam my waist to settle on my stomach, I let go of the curtain. My hand hovers, fingertips grazing velvet.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I respect you. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”

I relax against his chest and breathe him in—sun-dried cotton and lye soap, softened by a faint trace of crushed herbs. The scent of safety. The scent of home.

It doesn’t intoxicate; it grounds. A reminder of who I am. What I believe in. What I’m supposed to become.

“Thank you,” I whisper back.

He nuzzles my hair while his hands slide to a spot just below my breasts. I spin and lift onto my toes to plant my lips to his, my palms splaying against his pecs.

He kisses me softly with the warmest of mouths, and slows my blood with the gentlest of touch. No electricity to speed my heart; no lie to dissect. My mind doesn’t spin trying to make sense of nipping teeth or the stroke of a tongue.

The hand that runs up my back and cups the nape of my neck wishes to cradle me, not capture me. Not possess me.

I never lose myself. Which means I never snap back to awareness, like waking from the same nightmare—alert and breathless.

I could have kissed these lips forever without questioning what it meant to bealive, truly alive. I’d have never craved the sharp, terrifying exhilaration of being breakable. Like dangling off a cliff with the promise of everything I’ve ever wanted twenty feet below, if only I’d let my hand slip.

Thorne would catch me.

Always.

I lean closer and bunch his shirt in my fists. I search for the cliff with the grind of my hips; invite a fire into my core.

Nothing.

I try to train my thoughts on a younger, more passionate version of Thorne but wind up finding another memory.

My back against the wall, the taste of minty breath. Sandy blond strands caught between my fingers.

Hot breath in my ear:Tell me you want me.

The steady rhythm of my heart flickers as the skin of my chest flushes.

My tongue eagerly seeks Thorne’s, but his mouth stays firmly closed—fair, this is not how we kiss. Not yet, butmaybe.

I cup my hand over his and arch my breasts against his ribs, my mouth working a little harder. His lips slowly part, and his hips seem to move. Just the subtlest of thrusts, but a good sign. Agreatsign.

I follow the memory to a bed, to tangled limbs and strong hands and dirty words growled in my ear.

My hand cupping Thorne’s, I slowly guide him beneath my sweater. Together, we crawl up my stomach, over my breasts, to the yellowing bruises circling my neck.

I mold his hand around my throat and give him a gentle squeeze.

He rips from my mouth. “What are you doing?”

My face goes cold at the accusation in his tone. For a moment, my lungs refuse to move. “It’s okay,” I say but let go of his hand. “I want you to.”

Deep lines form across his forehead as his upper lip twitches with a curl he doesn’t quite allow. I wonder how hard he has to hold back. “Why?”

Why?

Very good question.

Thorne waits for me to respond. I can’t even find the truth, let alone a good enough lie.

Eventually, I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”