Page 85 of Grim

“Believe me,” he says so quietly that it could be mistaken for wind, “it’s very dangerous to fall.”

“Good thing you stopped me before it’s too la—”

He cuts me off with a brutal kiss. His mouth crashes to mine like a storm all its own. There’s no hesitation this time—no lingering touches or half-breathed apologies. Kane devours me. Rain slips between our lips as his hands find my hips, lifting me to his waist like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around him. He pulls away long enough to move us to a flat plane in the center of the rooftop.

He lays me down on the wet slate, his body hovering above mine, drenched and desperate. His mouth is everywhere—on my neck, my collarbone, down my breasts,and over my scar. Fingers trail up my thighs beneath the thin fabric, reverent and aching, until I gasp his name.

“Oh, Grim.”

At the sound of my voice, he pulls back, a new look behind his eyes. Tension crawls up his spine as he goes stiff. “We can’t do this,” he rasps, thunder cracking behind the words. “Putain, Rue. This isn’t just wrong; it’s impossible.” His voice is frayed, unraveling at the edges. Not a demand, not even a plea—something more desperate than either. Like this moment could break him in a way nothing else ever has.

I fist the front of his soaked shirt, dragging him down until our lips nearly touch. “I want you,” I breathe. “I want this. You. Now. Before time runs out.”

“There will never be enough time,” he rushes out. “Your touch, your skin, your fire,” he intones, kissing and breathing me in between each phrase. “This is too good to be real. You are too good to be real.”

I dig my nails deeper into the flesh beneath his shirt as I grit out, “Feels pretty real to me.” My eyes lock with his, a silent entreaty shared between us.

“This isn’t a part of your story, Rue. It can’t be.”

“Then I guess it’s time to write a new one.” The conviction and power in my voice would surprise the old me, but the Rue in this moment has never been more certain of anything.

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a growl, pure devastation and hunger bleeding into one.

“Fuck Fate,” he utters so low in his chest that it’s more of a vibration than words.

Fireworks of lightning dot the night sky, and thunder booms.

And then his mouth crashes against mine with finality. His kiss is punishing and deliberate, brutal and breathtaking. His hands move like he’s memorizing every inch of my flesh before I disappear—leaving trails of fire over my rain-slicked skin. He cups my face, grips my waist, and slides his hands over the curve of my ass, like he was born knowing my body.

There’s nothing delicate in the way he cages me under his form—nothing soft or gentle in the way our hips alignlike puzzle pieces that have waited lifetimes to click into place.

The rain is cold, but I’m burning alive. His teeth graze the skin above my breast like he’s considering whether or not to devour me whole. My back arches against the hard stone shingles beneath us, but I don’t care. I want him to mark me. I want to remember this night in the storm.

Actually,fuck that, I want the storm to remember us.

His breath is ragged as his body grinds against mine in a most maddening rhythm. His thigh wedges between mine, and I moan shamelessly, the pressure just enough to make me shudder.

“I’m not”—he breaks off, voice rough—“going to be gentle.”

“Good.” I pant, curling my arms around his shoulders as lightning explodes overhead. “Make me feel, Grim.”

He presses his forehead to mine, and we get lost in a moment between a heartbeat and a breath.

“That name is growing on me.”

I slide my hands down, unbuckling his belt with trembling fingers. The metal clinks under the storm’s roar as I unzip his pants, my hand slipping inside, finding him. He’s hard and heavy. And when I wrap my fingers around him, he lets out a broken, tortured sound that rockets straight to the center of me.

“Looks like you’re growing on me too.”

“Rue,” he groans, voice cracking on my name like it physically hurts him to say it, “watch your fucking mouth.”

I stroke him once, slow, then again, tighter, and his hips jerk into my palm as he claws the tiles on either side of my head.

“Fill me.” I whisper the command into his mouth, and like a skeleton key, it unlocks every door.

His whole being moves with measured desperation now, dragging my underwear down my legs, then casting them aside. His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me wet and wanting, and he curses under his breath.

“Fuck, Rue,” he growls. “You’re soaked.”