Page 138 of Cold Mercy

I grip her hips, bruisingly tight, and drive into her until the only thing in the world is the sound of our skin slapping together and her muffled cries against my palm.

“Look at me,” I command, removing my hand for a second so she can scream. “Look at the man who’s ruining you.”

✽✽✽

We crash sometime after god-knows-how-long, both of us wrecked and breathless, the sheets pushed uselessly to the floor. My body is still trembling in little aftershocks.

She is curled against my side, still naked, her cheek resting on my shoulder. I pull her tight into me, my arm locking around her like I’m afraid she’ll vanish if I let go.

“Fuck, babe… you were fucking amazing,” I murmur, my voice wrecked.

I feel her shiver against me. She tilts her head up, meeting my eyes for a second, then lets her fingers drift down the hard line of my torso. Her nails trace across my abs, lower, across the old scars I usually hide.

“Thomas…” Her voice barely carries. “Do you want to talk about these?”

I breathe out a laugh, almost resigned, and shake my head.

“Nothing to talk about, sweetheart. Marine life leaves souvenirs.”

I try to play it off, but I feel the tension under her hand, the way her body goes still. She wants to ask, I know she does.

“Fine,” she whispers. “But if you ever do want to talk… I’m here.”

I lean in and kiss her, slow and warm, nothing like the way I ruined her earlier.

“Now I’m happy,” I murmur against her mouth. “Happy you’re here, with me. Don’t think too much tonight, Sophia. Just…stay. Stay with me. Let this be ours for a little longer.”

I kiss her forehead, pulling her even closer, my thumb stroking slow circles on her hip.

She rests there for a long moment, her breathing evening out against my chest. Her hand traces lazy patterns over my skin, nails lightly scratching, grounding me.

“Do you remember,” she whispers, her voice shy, almost hesitant, “that book we read together? When you were staying with me after the accident?”

I smile against her hair, because how could I ever forget? I remember the way the lamplight caught her cheekbones and the soft cadence of her voice as she read, but the truth is I spent the entire time just watching her, completely deaf to the words.

“The Lady of the Camellias,” I say. “Of course I remember.”

She pushes herself up, propping her chin on my chest to look at me. Her eyes are wide and bright with a mix of surprise and pleasure as she bites her lip.

“You remembered? So you were actually listening to me?”

I brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Of course I was listening to you,” I murmur. “Though I admit, I don't remember much of the plot. I was too busy looking at you.”

She laughs, a soft, genuine sound that vibrates through my chest.

“Well,” she says, tracing my collarbone. “If we go… when we go to France together… we could look for it. A beautiful copy, in French…because the one I have is just a cheap translation with a bad cover, an original would have a soul.”

She said when. Not if. When.

She’s talking about the future. Our future. My chest tightens, a physical ache that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with hope. She wants me there. She wants me beside her in the place she came from. It feels like forgiveness before I’ve even confessed, and God help me, I want to earn it.

“Why France?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Because I was born in Cannes,” she says softly, her eyes distant for a second. “You’d love it. Although knowing you, you’d probably complain about the sand or the food being too fancy. But I’d take you anyway, just to see you try to look grumpy under a palm tree.”

I flip us over, pinning her to the mattress, hovering over her. Her hair spills across the pillow, framing her face like a halo. She looks up at me, breathless, eyes shining.