Page 82 of Kill for a Kiss

His lips part against mine, his tongue unhurried but claiming. It sends a thrill through me that makes my toes curl. His hand cradles the back of my neck, thumb stroking my heated skin. Time feels like it’s stopped. There’s nothing else but this kiss, this pull between us, this impossible want that’s been building inside me for too long.

At some point, he breaks the kiss, both of us breathless again. “I…” he starts, but he swallows it down, his jaw flexing like he’s fighting the words back before they can spill out of him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I whisper. Because I already know. I’ve known for a while now. I feel it in the way he looks at me, that I’m more than a broken thing he’s patching back together.

Sterling lets out another soft sigh. His hand nearly grips. His body firm against mine. His breath shaky as he brushes his mouth over mine again and again, as if he’s afraid of rushing. But I don’t want gentle. Not right now, when I’ve had a taste of his sweet, warm kisses.

So I give him what I can—what I want—threading my fingers into his hair and tugging, only a little. A silent gasp escapes him, and that’s when I feel his control teetering. His hand at my waist tightens, pulling me against him until there’s undeniably nothing left between us. His other hand comes up to cradle the side of my face again, his thumb dragging against my cheek in a way that makes my pulse jump.

This kiss is everything we’ve kept bottled up. It’s all the near-touches, the glances that lasted too long, and the silent moments that always crackled with more than words.

He pulls back a bit, enough to breathe, and I can feel the tremble in his breath.

“You don’t have to be so careful,” I murmur, brushing my thumbacross his lips.

His eyes close for a second. “Yes, I do.” There’s an ache in his voice, a sound of pained caution.

“No,” I whisper, “You don’t have to be. I want this, Sterling.”

His name is still on my lips when he kisses me again. His mouth crashes into mine with need and desperation. I open for him, breathless as his tongue grazes mine. Warm, searching, and sending a bolt of heat straight through me. My hands roam under his shirt, against his back, over the hard lines of muscle that flex beneath my fingers.

I feel his fingers at my waist. His touch glides over the thin fabric of my shirt—his shirt—up my ribs, every brush sending sparks along my skin.

His breath breaks by my lips, and I feel his full-body shudder. “Elle,” he whimpers.

I moan. My fingernails drag lightly against the nape of his neck. He lets out a shaky breath. Angling my head, I eagerly give him more, and he takes it, his lips trailing down my jaw, to my throat, lingering there, breath hot against my skin. I grind against him, his grip on my waist almost bruising me.

Sterling gasps, his breath uneven. “You’re killing me,” he whispers, so strained.

He lifts his head, his eyes burning into mine. His fingers slide up my side, tracing along my ribs, sending more shivers through me.

“You have no idea…” he whispers again, “how bad this could get.”

“I want you to show me.”

Sterling kisses me again, much more rougher this time. I meet him with just as much fire. My hands slide up his chest, with nothing between us but breath and fabric.

I feel the shivers in him as his lips devour mine. He pulls back just enough for our mouths to hover, our breaths mingling again. Hisfingers brush my cheek, tracing the edge of my jaw, so gentle it’s nearly torture. He’s still searching and seeking permission I never want to stop giving him.

“Elle…” he says, more shaken than before, like he’s fighting something inside himself. His gaze flicks past me, toward the coat rack. Then he asks, “Can I use the scarf?”

My breath’s still caught from his kisses. “The scarf?”

He nods. His hand drops from my cheek to flex restlessly at his side. “To cover your eyes.”

That steals the air from my lungs. I should ask why, but then I see that same flicker in his eyes from before, the barest hint of vulnerability. It reminds me of that night when he took off his mask for me. How exposed he must have felt. How much it must’ve cost him to show even that much. Maybe this is like that. Maybe this is his way of showing me everything…without being seen.

So with a determined nod, I say, “Yes.”

Another small release of tension rolls off his shoulders. He stands, walking over to the coat rack with that same soundless grace he always moves with. I watch him take the scarf, running his fingers over the silk fabric. He turns back, scarf in hand, gaze locked on mine. If this is what he needs to stop holding back, then I want it. I wanthim.

Sterling kneels in front of me again, the warmth of his body close, so close that my pulse stutters some more. I feel his breath at my ear before his fingers even touch me. Then the silken fabric drapes over my eyes, feeling cool and soft on my face, and then everything disappears.

His hands are careful. One brushes my temple as he ties the scarf at the back of my head. The other lingers near my neck, his knuckles ghosting over my skin. Every brush of his fingers leaves sparks behind, my senses sharper without sight.

Darkness settles, but I’m not afraid. If anything, I feel steadier, tethered by the slow, warm breath he lets out near my ear, and grounded by his scent and his body so close to mine.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice deep and penetrating.