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I smell like home because Iamhis home.
Just as he’s mine.
Another person might think this is religious mumbo jumbo, soul mate nonsense that belongs in a romance novel, but nothing about this is ideal.
Nothing about this is romantic.
If anything, my skin stained with blood from his self-harming, the beginnings of a headache stirring in my temples make the truth even starker—this man needs me to stop him from escalating.
Cold.
Hard.
Fact.
Technically, he already is, but I could curtail his habits and limit him.
If ever there’s a man in desperate need of a means of slaking his emotions, it’s Savio.
Denying him sex, the purest form of release, is like chaining a dog to a wall and not letting him walk.
He’s dying on the inside so he whips himself with barbs because he has no means of purging himself of the emotions that drown him.
He needs to drown in me.
And, God, I’m more than ready for the flood.
Once again, he shows me that we’re on the same wavelength because he wakes from his doze.
I shiver as he presses his face between my breasts.
He breathes in deep. “This is wrong.”
“Nothing between us can ever be wrong.”
My words are calm because I feel calm.
I’m at peace for the first time since I saw his face on a TV screen.
And knowing he feels the same is pure bliss.
He didn’t stir, not once, through the night in my embrace, and while I’m not saying I’m a miracle worker...
Okay, wait, maybe I am.
“I’m asking myself if you’re real.”
“Can’t you feel me? Can’t you tell that I am?”
He moves slightly, and all of a sudden, I feel his erection against my thigh.
Everything inside me tenses up then just relaxes, turning molten as need rumbles through me.
The need for him.
The need to connect.
The need to be at one with him.