Page 297 of Ricardo

But Ricardo’s laugh still echoes in my mind.

His hands are on my back, his body warm against mine. Dante woke up today and complained, and for the first time since the gunshots, Ricardo doesn't look like a man ravaged.

I cannot break this yet. I just can't make myself do it.

Tomorrow is soon enough.

So I press my palm flat over his heart and say something else in my heart.

“I missed that laugh.”

The amusement fades from his face, but the warmth remains.

He lifts one hand to my cheek. “You will hear it again.”

“I want to.”

“You will.”

I lean into his hand. “Promise?”

His thumb brushes beneath my eye. “Yes.”

Then he bends and kisses me.

It is gentle at first. Careful in the way everything about him has been careful with me for days. But I am tired of careful. I am tired of blood and fear and waiting rooms and men discussing how to dismantle another man without bringing our world down around us.

I rise onto my toes and kiss him back harder.

Ricardo’s breath quickens.

His hand slides into my hair, and his other arm tightens around my waist, pulling me against him until there is no space left between us. The kiss deepens, slow and aching, and some of the shaking inside me finally quiets.

But something else starts shaking. My body trembles with need against his.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“You need sleep,” he says.

I shake my head and pull him back down to me.

“I need you,” I whisper against his lips.

He stills.

Not with surprise. With hesitation.

My eyes open.

“What is it?”

He studies my face. His thumb traces my jawline.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he says.

“You won't.”

“Julia.”