Page 145 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Not because he was cruel.
Not because everyone would hate us for it.
Not because his brother was my best friend.
Not because I used to think I was in love with Reed.
But because nothing—and I mean fucking nothing—should have felt this good.
And anything that did?
Had to be wrong.
Nash breathed against my lips, still parted as he exchanged breaths with me. “What’s lagom?”
My hands fell to his chest, thrilled by his heart’s tempo. It matched mine. “Not too little. Not too much. Just right.”
I didn’t believe in perfect, but I believed in lagom.
It meant right, but not necessarily perfect.
And in a world filled with devious lies, it was a truth I latched onto.
Nash dipped his fingers beneath the hem of my jeans, brushing his thumb against the crease of my thigh and sex. “Why not say perfect?”
I shook my head, appalled by the idea. “Perfection is unattainable. It’s stained by the suffering required to chase it. Perfect is something you think with your head. Lagom is something you feel with your heart.”
His fingers ran a path along my underwear, knuckles brushing so much skin.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked and moved back, but his grip tightened on my waist, shifting me closer for a moment before he released me.
“I thought of a word.” He mouthed it like I do, looking a little ridiculous and endearing for once. “Is that what it’s like?”
“Like a cure?”
Nash’s eyes took in the space between us. “No.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t want him to. Not if he’d ruin magic words for me. He wielded the power, and I was too protective of words to risk it.
“What’s the word?” I asked.
Desperation didn’t suit me, but I needed to know.
Nash brushed a thumb across my cheek and slammed his lips against mine. He kissed me like I was nuclear and he needed to destroy me to save himself. His tongue slipped past my lips, stroking mine. I gripped his shirt, and he gripped my hair, running his hands through it in a way that had me begging to pant cafuné.
It ended too soon, before I could even appreciate that it’d begun. Disappointment slithered inside me, expanding at our distance.
“It’s late,” he said, pulling away from me. “Security in the plaza makes their rounds in an hour.”
My shirt had been torn down the middle like a vest, so I wore it backward and used Nash’s suit jacket to cover my exposed spine. He managed to look dangerous with the mussed hair and ripped shirt, whereas I resembled a kid playing dress-up.
We walked to the hotel in silence, stopping at the entrance. I opened my mouth when I realized he’d never told me the word, but I shoved my curiosity down my throat and replaced it with my own magic words.
Nyctophilia.
Basorexia.
Ibrat.
