Page 90 of The Apparent Trap

I huff a laugh, my affection for him blooming. “Did you just make a Titanic joke?”

“Maybe.”

“I know this is like . . . the most inopportune time to make this point, but I kind of can’t help myself—” He kisses the side of my neck, and I shudder, almost losing my train of thought. “But the fundamental issue for Rose and Jack actually wasn’t space on the door. It’s the lack of buoyancy and the inevitability of hypothermia as a result of that.”

“Am I really not distracting you enough that you’re capable of talking about the buoyancy of a door?”

“National Geographic did a special with James Cameron a few years ago about it to, like, scientifically prove once and for all that they both couldn’t survive, and it was incredibly interesting and—”

His hands have traveled down far enough that I’ve lost the ability to speak. “This okay?” he asks, his voice heavy.

I swallow, hard, trying to remember to breathe. “Mm-hmm,” I mutter out, my head falling back, all thoughts about anything but his hands, his mouth, his body a distant memory. I give myself over to the sensation of his touch. The firm hold of his grip. The way he pants my name every time I move, like it’s a benediction.

He lifts his hand to the hem of my sweater. “Can I take this off?”

I nod, words no longer possible. He slips the material over my head, quick but gentle. And then he stands back and stares. I miss the feel of him against me, but there’s something so intoxicating about the way his eyes are skating across my skin. He’s looking at me like I’m a priceless work of art, worthy of study and admiration.

No one ever told me that I shouldn’t expect anything less.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he says, running his hand along his face like he’s overwhelmed from the view.

I need to be near him again. I lift his shirt off, too, and now it’s my turn to stare.

“You’re gorgeous,” I mutter.

“You can’t just repeat what I said,” he says with a chuckle. “Get your own compliment.”

“Okay,” I reply with a nod, my brain too fuzzy to come up with something coherent. “How about just . . . I like you. I like the real version of you that I think only I get to see.”

I want to cringe the second I’ve blurted it out, but I can tell from how his expression softens that it wasn’t the wrong thing to say.

“That’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten,” he whispers and takes a step toward me, closing the gap between us.

I do what I’ve been dying to do for weeks now. I run my fingers along the lines of his knife tattoo on his bicep. I spot a few more tattoos scattered across his chest, their details worthy of follow-up but not right now when I’m so eager to get my hands on him. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, this time urgent, this moment no longer about softness and exploration. I want him so desperately I think my heart is going to beat out of my chest.

And he seems to be on the same page, because no sooner do I think that than he’s walking me back to my bed and gently lowering me down onto my back, crawling on top of me, bracketing me in so there’s nothing else outside of us.

I go to unbutton his pants, but his hands catch mine. He moves them above my head and holds them in place. “I meant every word of what I said. I want to take you out on a date. I want to talk to you late at night and make you laugh and not have to be in a separate sleeping bag from you when I tell you every thought that crosses my mind. I want to make up for every moment I confused you.” He kisses me, soft, chaste affection punctuating his words to put the finest point on them.

“I can want all those things, too, and also want to take off your pants,” I point out.

He drops his head to my shoulder and laughs, the grin against my skin so open and lovely. “Yeah, I want that too,” he finally says, looking back up. “But I don’t want you to think—”

I kiss him again, stopping whatever he’s about to say. “I believe you. I trust you.”

His eyes are so intense on mine, dark, filled with emotion that doesn’t need to be explained anymore. We’ve already explained so much to each other. We’ve let the other in without even wanting to.

It makes my heart fuller to imagine how much further we can go now that we’ve given ourselves permission to try. We’ve given ourselves the permission to move forward, when neither of us ever really believed it was possible.

There are no words left. He lets me slide his pants off, and his hands make quick work of mine.

There are no words needed. I climb on top of him because I want to see him; I’m greedy to watch his face as he comes undone.

There are no words to describe this. He’s deep, he knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s got me incoherent with pleasure.

I’m alive.

We can’t change the past. We can’t bring back people we miss or get time back we’ve lost. But we can live in the present and appreciate it. We can be open to living.