Page 196 of Reckless Obsession

“You don’t want to?” I ask, and I hear the edge creeping into my voice. The old panic. The old instinct to turn uncertainty into rejection before it can turn into anything worse. “We kiss all the time.”

We do.

We kiss in kitchens and doorways. We kiss after wine, after laughter, after long days spent walking under too much sun. Sometimes the kissing becomes sex. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes we end up tangled together in bed, warm and half-asleep, with no need to explain what we are doing.

We are not committed.

We are not exclusive.

We have never put a name to this thing between us. Maybe that is why it feels safe because nothing named can be taken away.

“I want to kiss you,” Dante says. He cups my face again, his thumb moving slowly over my cheekbone. “But I do not know if you are asking because you want me,” he continues, “or because you want to stop feeling something.”

The question lands too close.

My throat tightens.

I could tell him the truth.

I could say I want his mouth because I need to feel wanted for five minutes. Because I need something uncomplicated and physical to drown out the messages sitting like a weight in my chest. Because if he kisses me, maybe the hole will close. Maybe I will stop thinking about all the people I have shut out and the person who hurt me.

Instead, I say, “Then I’ll kiss you.”

Before Dante can answer, I fist the front of his shirt and pull him toward me.

Our mouths collide. At first, he doesn’t kiss me back. He stays still, his breath catching against my lips, one hand hovering at my waist as though he is waiting for me to change my mind. Waiting for me to come back to myself.

Then I tug him closer.

Desperate. Stupidly desperate.

His hand slides to the back of my neck and then he’s kissing me back.

The kiss is hot, messy, feverish. Nothing like the slow, careful kisses Dante usually gives me. This one has teeth at the edges. Not cruel, not punishing, just full of everything neither of us is saying. My fingers tighten in his shirt. I pull him down with me as I fall back against the mattress.

He follows, but he does not trap me.

His weight settles over me only when I pull him closer, and even then, one of his hands stays braced beside my head. His body is warm and solid above mine, the familiar scent of him surrounding me.

For half a second, it works.

There’s only Dante’s mouth and the rise and fall of his breath. The press of his chest against mine. The steady grip at the back of my neck, holding me together without asking what is wrong.

Hey. I know I don’t deserve to hear from you, but I just need to know if you’re doing alright.

The memory of Tristan’s message slips in uninvited. I kiss Dante harder, fingers tightening in his shirt, trying to drive it away. His mouth moves against mine, and I try to give myself to the sensation. I try to make it enough. I try to let every thought burn away under his heat.

But another message flashes behind my eyes.

I heard about your leave of absence. I hope Italy is treating you well.

I drag my hands up Dante’s back, arching into him, letting the kiss turn rougher. He makes a low sound against my mouth and shifts, slotting one thigh between mine. The friction pulls a needy breath out of me, and I use it—use him—to push everything else further down.

It doesn’t work the way I want it to.

I don’t know what to say to make you believe that I didn’t mean to hurt you.

The words surface anyway, quiet and persistent, cutting through the heat. I turn my face slightly, only for Dante to follow, kissing me deeper, more intently, like he can sense me slipping. I let him. I kiss him back with everything I have left, fingers in his hair now, body answering every movement like closeness alone might be enough to drown the rest of it out.