Page 23 of Fear No Hell

I drop my hands to her right ankle, dragging them up her calf, over her knee, and up her thigh.

Her skin is silky smooth under my fingers, so soft I want to nuzzle my face along the long expanse of naked flesh right here in the kitchen.

I bite down on my lower lip hard. Maybe pain will distract me from the perfect woman in front of me.

“All good on this side.” If my voice is more gravelly than usual, Lila doesn’t say anything about it.

“Are you going to do the other leg too?”

Fuck me. I’m going to need a cold shower after this.

“Yep.” I grind my teeth as I release her right thigh, dropping my hands to her left ankle to repeat the process. Somehow, this time, it’s even more difficult.

Goosebumps follow my fingers as they graze up her leg, stopping just shy of the bottom of her shirt.

My gaze flits over the oversized piece of clothing, catching only a quick glimpse before trailing down to her legs.

Although my focus has moved on, my brain still manages to latch onto the detail of a bird's profile. I pause.

Was that my high school mascot?

My eyes flick back up to the cartoonish angry raptor with its sharp beak, colloquially known as the thunderbird, which is indisputably the mascot for Hyde Park Academy.

Blood is racing through my veins, the roar of it blaring out every other sound except Lila. Even after seeing her in my clothes so many times, it's still so fucking hot I can’t think straight, the feral caveman that is my midbrain going haywire.

Mine.

Before I can think better of it, I find myself teasing at the shirt hem. Not lifting it, only brushing my fingertips along the worn fabric, captivated by the brief glimpses of her thighs as it shifts.

I know I’m flirting with a boundary here. The base instincts roaring in my brain—the ones that scream Lila is mine—don’t care, but my soul knows this may be too much for her. I close my eyes and, with a gut-wrenching tug, drag my hand down to safer territory.

“Sam,” Lila breathes, her fingers tangling in my hair. She doesn’t put any force on my head, doesn’t push for me to look up at her, which is probably a good thing since I’m hanging on by a thread. “Sam,” she repeats. My name cracks as it comes out of her mouth.

And because I’m so fucking weak when it comes to her, I tilt my head back.

Our eyes meet, her now-scarlet irises radiant.

Inside me, something dark unfurls, flaring warmth through my chest, its tendrils radiating across my body, seemingly following the trail of my veins.

“Lila.” My voice is deeper than it has ever been before, more a growl than my normal speech pattern.

At her name, panic flares in Lila’s eyes, the scarlet turning back into the pale blue I know so well.

Shit. I made this weird. Stand up.

I remain firmly planted.

Get up. Now.

I don't move. No matter how hard I urge myself to stand, I can’t quite bring myself to ignore the implied order she gave me: to kneel at her feet.

“Please stand up,” she begs, lifting the spell—the terror—that I’ll disappoint her if I rise before she’s ready for me to.

I lay my hands against the countertop behind her, pressing against them to distribute my weight more evenly before I lift myself carefully. It’s the best way to ensure I’m stable until I can get my balance while still being an awkward position that puts me closer to her than she may want.

Her eyes dart to where the muscles in my arms are straining next to her torso. I’m about to apologize—I’ve made things so awkward—when I see need flash across her face, her eyes flickering scarlet again. Her tongue slips out over her lower lip.

A groan escapes me as my head drops until my forehead rests against hers. “You’re killing me, sweetness,” I mumble, barely in control of my response to her.

“I’m sorry.” Her whispered apology is a knife in my heart.

My lust is my responsibility. I won’t make it hers.

“Not your fault. It’s never your fault how I feel.” Inhaling deeply, I shove away from her and contemplate the casserole. At least I think it’s a casserole. At minimum, it’s in a casserole dish. “So what, uh, what did you make?”

She easily accepts the redirect with a grimace as she considers her creation.

“It’s a cheesy broccoli rice casserole. I forgot to set the timer.

I’ve never been a very good cook. Usually I screwed up the recipe, though, not the cooking time.

” Her fingers tangle together. “It was just—I want to help around the house.”

“Lila, you don’t have to do—”

“I know I don’t, but I feel so useless. All I do is make messes for you, and you clean them up without ever saying a word,” she bursts out. “I want to feel useful.”

“Okay. Yeah, I get it.” I nod. “I remember what that feels like.”

Her gaze darts quickly to where my prosthesis is covered by my pant leg. “So you’ll let me make us dinner then?”

“Sure,” I agree easily, still eyeballing the burnt food on the counter. It’s likely edible and, given the ingredients, has more health benefits than the Pop-Tart I was planning to have for dinner. I shrug. “Looks good.”

She giggles. “Are you crazy? It absolutely does not.” Each word is broken by a huff of laughter until, by the end of the sentence, she’s leaning against the counter, howling with laughter.

“Okay, it doesn’t look great,” I concede, snorting. “It's edible, which is half the battle, and I’m sure it tastes fine.”

“I don’t know why I chose cooking as my way to help,” she admits. “I’m really not a great cook.”

“You don’t have to make dinner if you don’t want to. I do like to cook, no matter what the sodium- and sugar-filled snacks I usually eat for dinner say about me.”

She stops laughing immediately. “You need to eat, Sam. Cereal absolutely doesn’t cut it. Pop-Tarts don’t either.” It’s a scolding, even if it’s a light one. “I can learn how to cook.”

Nodding, I reach over and pick up the cooled casserole, jerking my chin towards the cabinet where I keep the plates. “Let’s break into this bad boy.” Possibly literally. “Can you grab the plates?”

“No really, you don’t have to eat that!” Lila makes a jump for the pan.

I see her coming and sweep the pan over my head, so she can't get to it. “C’mon, no, give it back to me! What if I accidentally poison you?” She’s hopping, grabbing at my arm to pull it back down, but all she’s accomplishing is rubbing the length of her body against mine.

Fuck me.

The banked desire from before comes racing forward, heated and uncontrollable.

My vision dims like someone turned the lights off before going bright again.

Brighter than before. I blink in shock, gaping at what I see around me.

The world is painted in technicolor, everything a shade too vibrant and alarmingly vivid.

I lower my head towards Lila, who is pressed up against me, her face turned towards mine.

She’s surrounded by a scarlet and gold streaked aura that looks alive, the gilded strands shifting and tangling around the crimson ones, changing them into something beautiful. Something different.

With the hand not holding the pan, I stroke my fingers through the air by her head, entranced by the way the glow doesn’t fight me.

Instead, it folds around me and embraces me.

Greets me like an old friend. There’s a fine pulsing against my flesh where the tendrils are wrapped around me.

It’s not there—not really, I don’t think—but it feels like it is.

“Sam,” Lila whispers, dragging my attention back to her face, away from the glowing strands still draped around my fingers like a lover. The way she says my name is breathy and insubstantial, and somehow I know, it’s exactly how she would murmur it into my mouth if I were to kiss her right now.

Fuck, do I want to kiss her right now.

I want her underneath me. I want to feel how soft her skin is under my fingertips and what it feels like to drive into her hard and fast. I need to hear the moans she makes and what my name sounds like coming from her when she breaks apart.

The rational side of my brain is struggling against the side of me that’s all instinct.

If someone had asked me a few months ago whether there was a part of me that was impulsive, dark and hungry and wanting, I would have said no.

That changed the day I found Lila standing over my father dripping in blood.

It’s happening more and more, this inability to control the desperate impulses drawing me to her, wanting to be with her.

We feel inevitable, connected in a way neither of us fully understands.

My mind is cloudy, my head tilting towards hers for the second time tonight. Each inch closed between us brings clarity.

She’s mine. She’ll always be mine.

The voice sounds like me but… not. The oddness of hearing someone who’s not quite me speaking into my head has me stepping away quickly, blinking hard to clear my vision of… well, whatever all of that was.

My shoulder hurts. Why does my shoulder hurt?

I reach for it, only to discover my arm is still in the air, balancing the casserole pan high overhead.

I blink again in confusion. With each flutter of my eyelids, pieces of the last few minutes filter back in.

I remember every bit of having Lila pressed against me, every second of the weirdly technicolor world, and the overpowering urge to kiss her.

I can’t remember why I’m holding a casserole pan overhead, though.

I shake my head. Maybe I’m burnt out? I’ve been working for, like, ten days straight. Maybe it’s time to actually take a day or two off.

A huff of breath against my chest rips me from my thoughts, and I glance down in time to see Lila pulling away, arms wrapped around her waist and drawing into herself.

“Shit.” I toss the dish onto the counter with a clatter. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Lila. I don’t know—”