Page 95 of The Ache That Stayed

My nose brushed hers—barely there. But she inhaled like it was more. Like I’d kissed her.

A low sound escaped me—deep, guttural, impossible to choke back. Her lips parted, dragging her tongue over them, nervous, automatic.

I wanted to do that.

Again.

And again.

Fuck—I wanted to lose whatever control I had.

“Stop—” she gasped, as if she’d read my thoughts.

But she didn’t move. Not an inch.

I dipped my head, letting my lips trace the line of her jaw, down the curve of her neck—slow enough to feel the way she reacted to every inch.

A small, broken sound escaped her. But it detonated through me and went straight to my groin. Her pulse jumped so hard I could feel it.

And then—she turned her head, baring more of her neck.

Whether it was surrender, instinct, or an invitation, I didn’t know. Didn’t care either.

I wanted to bite on it, suck the skin. Bruise it. Mark it.

Every instinct in me said take, but I didn’t.

I pressed my face into that warm skin, breathing her in, groaning into her throat like a starving man. My arousal pressed at the bottom of her stomach, craving the heat from her core.

Her entire body involuntarily jerked. Her hands pressed flat against my chest—meant to push, but they didn’t. They just stayed there, trembling.

“Santino…” she breathed.

My name. Spoken like that. Just like she did the other night.

My cock strained painfully against my jeans, every filthy thought in my head suddenly involving her—her hands, that defiant mouth—

I shook the thought off.

Fuck.

I was going insane. She was driving me insane.

I pressed closer—pushing my hips into her, so she could feel exactly what she did to me. She sucked in a breath, hips rolling into mine, eyes fluttering shut.

Fuck. Me. Sideways.

I wanted to rip her clothes off and bury myself so deep in her that she’d forget to survive without me. For one long, stretched second, we were suspended there—her body yielded against mine. My breath shook against the hollow of her throat. Both of us drowning in a ruin we weren’t supposed to touch.

Then—she gathered whatever strength she had left and shoved me back. Just enough for both of us to breathe again.

“Sleep on the armchair,” she snapped, voice unsteady. “Or the floor. I’m not sharing the bed.”

I wiped a hand over my mouth, trying to anchor myself, failing miserably.

“So hostile,” I mocked. “Maybe Blondie will let me share her bed.”

Her head snapped up. I swear I heard her neck crack. Her whole body went rigid.