Page 127 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“What’s your plan now?”

I should have an answer. I should be able to tell her exactly what I’m doing, and how I plan to spend the next six months. But I don’t. Since the day I arrived, I’ve been living from moment to moment, focusing on the next task, the next breath. And it makes me realize that I’ve been in survival mode since being released from prison.

Maybe she senses that, because her hand finds mine, linking her fingers between my own like they belong there. The contact sends heat racing up my arm. She traces her thumb over my knuckles, and the urge to drag her onto my lap and finish what we started in the factory is almost impossible to resist.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to know all the answers right now.” Her eyes don’t lift from where they’re fixed on our joined hands. “In fact, right now, I don’t want to analyze anything, or dissect it, or figure out what it all means.”

“Whatdoyou want?”

Her other hand slides up my thigh. The touch is light, but it still burns through my jeans. “I want to stop overthinkingeverything.” She leans closer. “I want to feel something real again.”

The space between us crackles with tension. I lift my hand to trace the line of her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingertips. She tilts her head, exposing more skin, and that’s all the invitation I need.

I kiss her. It’s not like in the factory, where it was all heat and desperation born of pain and anger. This is slower, more deliberate. I take my time, learning the shape of her mouth again, taking care not to hurt her lip, while I rediscover the way she tastes, and the sounds she makes.

When she moves to straddle my lap, I lean back, giving her control and letting her set whatever pace she wants. Her weight settles against me, and I have to fight to keep my hands gentle on her hips when all I want is to grip harder, and pull her closer.

Her fingers find the hem of my shirt, sliding under to flatten her palm against my ribs. “Take this off.”

I comply, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. Her eyes trace over my chest, my shoulders, my arms, lingering on the ink that marks my skin. When she touches me, her hands are sure. There’s nothing hesitant about the way she explores, her fingertips following the lines of muscle, the edges of tattoos, and the scars I’ve collected over the years.

“Your turn.” My voice is rough.

She lifts her arms, letting me pull the sweater over her head. Sunlight paints patterns across her skin, highlighting the curves and planes I remember, and the changes time has made. When I run my fingers over her skin, her breath hitches.

I lean forward to press my mouth to her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast hidden by the lacy bra.

“Bedroom.” The word falls from her lips like a demand, breathless and urgent.

I stand, lifting her with me. Her legs wrap around my waist. “Where is it?”

“Second door on the left.”

I’m moving before she finishes speaking, navigating her hallway while she kisses my neck, my jaw, my mouth. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp in a way that makes me dizzy with need.

This isn’t about the past anymore. This is about now.Us.And whatever we’re building in this moment.

Chapter Fifty-Two

LILY

Sunlight spillsacross my bed as he lays me on the mattress, and comes down above me. His lips hover above mine, but before he kisses me, he stops, his thumb brushing near the split in my lip, the bruise on my cheek. His eyes flash.

“Don’t.” I catch his face between my palms, the rough stubble prickling against my skin. “I made my choice when I stepped between you.”

He leans in, his lips barely touching at first, teasing and testing. His breath is hot against my skin, a whisper of control before his mouth finally claims mine. Then his fingers knot in my hair, pulling my head back.

His mouth drifts lower, kissing along the dip of my collarbone. His teeth catch the lace of my bra and drag it downward, so he can run his tongue around each nipple, and then he’s moving again. When he reaches my waist, he pauses, lips teasing a path around my navel, before kissing his way back up to my lips.

His hand curves over my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers, tugging and twisting until I gasp, relearning what makes me shudder and writhe. He laughs softly against mymouth. I twist beneath him, until he rolls onto his back and I straddle his hips, so I can look at him.

The years have hardened him. His body is all taut muscle and sharp edges, his skin hot beneath my fingertips. My hands move over him, learning the new shape of him, discovering scars I don’t recognize, and feeling how different he is from the eighteen-year-old boy I knew. He’s broader, and harder. Very little of the boy remains, and yet … it’s still him.

I trace the ink wrapping his ribs, and lean away slightly so I can read the words.

She walks in light I dare not touch.

Darkness claims what is mine.