Page 93 of Wallflower

And I don’t know what to do with the sensation.

Cautiously, he pulls away, blinking slowly.

“Rip…”

“Shhh,” he sighs, planting another soft kiss.

I follow his lead, matching his intensity and bowing to the dominance when his hunger rises, lips becoming forceful.

He chokes back a rasp, the sound evaporating my arousal, pushing my concern to the forefront.

Ripley throws himself away from me for a heartbeat, holding back another anguished croak.

“Look at me,” I coax.

He does, but only for a fraction of a second before he slams a violent needy kiss upon me. His passion is bruising, but I weather his storm without faltering.

I lean back, sitting against the headboard and propping my knee up between us, forcing some distance. He tries to get around my blockade, but I keep him at bay until he agrees to look at me.

“Why’d you stop?” His eyes are glossy. It’s clear something is bothering him, deep in his core. I don’t know why he’s pushing himself on me when it’s causing his anguish.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

“I’m not saying you don’t.”

“Shit,” he mumbles, avoiding my gaze. “I’ll just go.” Backing off the bed, he crosses to retrieve his shirt, fumbling to button it up. I itch to lunge after him. With the way he resembles a wounded animal, he’s liable to dart away. Crazed and emotional, unaware of his surroundings, he’ll only end up more injured than before.

“No,” I say far too fast. I don’t want him leaving half-aware and charged up like this. “Stay.”

“You want me to stay?”

I nod over-enthusiastically, hoping to brew some happiness inside him.

It sort of works. The small sparkle is back in his eyes, the shadow slightly receding.

“What would we do?”

“Talk.”

“Talk?”

“Go Fish?”

Ripley pats his pockets. “Didn’t bring the cards.”

My sights scan the room, landing on the small table beside the chair. “We could read?” I jut my chin toward the ever-growing stack of books.

“Not my thing,” he replies, curling in on himself.

“Okay…back to talking then.”

“About what?” He inches closer, the buttons of his shirt in all the wrong holes.

“Anything.” I don’t want to say something that will set him off, so instead of prying into what makes him, him, I ask something deep but not directly invasive. “What’s something you’ve never told another living soul?”

It’s an open ended question, giving him the power to answer how he wants. He could tell me his favourite colour is pink, or tell me he fucked a jar of peanut butter just to see what the hype was about. I don’t care, as long as it keeps him here with me so I can chase away the ghosts in his eyes.