Page 27 of Lash

He snorts again. "Language is a beautiful thing. To create beauty and meaning from simple sounds is a kind of magic." His lips touch the top of my head, and he inhales, scenting my hair. "But then, I come from a long line of storytellers."

"You do?"

He nods, kissing the top of my head again. "Yes. My people, the Romani, have always preserved our stories, myths, beliefs, and legends in oral form. We tell stories—all people do. To sit around a fire and spin a tale of gods and men is what makes us human. It is how we understand the world around us. And for my people, it is especially true. We have never had a homeland, and so our stories become our home. They preserve our past, our heritage."

We lapse into silence for a long time, and the gentle rocking of the train lulls me into a drowsy twilight.

"Having you in my arms," Lash murmurs, "feels like…getting a breath of air when you are drowning."

"So keep breathing me," I mumble. "Let me be your breath."

He sighs, a rumbling breath. "Tatiana…"

"Mmmmm."

"It hurts to hope."

"Tata lost his heart when Mama died."

"It is a pain like no other."

"He gave up on himself," I say, struggling to make sense despite how sleepy I am. "In a way, I lost him too."

"Tatiana, I…"

I twist to find his lips with mine, leaving my eyes closed and seeking his mouth blindly. I find it, or he finds mine, or we find each other's. His kiss is slow and sweet, tender and hesitant.

"Just hold me, Lash. I do not ask anything more of you right now." I whisper this against his lips, and I can taste the sorrow on his breath, all tangled up with hope.

He kisses me again, once more so gently I almost wonder if I imagine it, dream it. Only the tingle of my lips tells me it's real.

I waketo Lash's soft snores against my ear. I leave my eyes closed, hearing Scarlett and Solomon whispering to each other, private murmurs I try not to overhear.

At some point in my sleep I have become wrapped up in Lash on the narrow bunk. His hard thigh is wedged between mine, pressing against my sex. His hand drapes lower on my hip, resting on my bottom, and his breath huffs softly against the top of my head.

I have never felt so safe, so content. I only wish we were alone. The desire I feel for Lash is a simmering cauldron in my belly—I struggle to keep it on a simmer, lest it boil over and push me to act on my desire.

I know he is not ready for that. To push him will be to lose him—he is a ghost of a man, and if I try to cling to him, he'll slip through my fingers.

He rumbles sleepily, shifting. Rolls to his back, bringing me with him so I’m lying prone on his hard, heavily muscled body. His heart pounds steadily under my ear, and his arms wrap around me, one slung across my shoulders and the other cradling my ass.

I grit my teeth and fight the desire bubbling in my blood. This task is made all the more difficult when he rumbles in his chest again and shifts in his sleep, nudging his hips against mine, pressing his erection against my core.

Morning erections are normal male physiology. I understand this. It is not evidence of his desire for me. I remind myself of this fact, because my heart wishes to believe otherwise. My body yearns to respond.

And it does, despite my best efforts. I lay upon him and breathe, just breathe, but my hips tilt, and press, because the burn in my core, the wild ache of need in my sex is liquid heat that only his touch can extinguish.

I curl my fingers into his shirt to keep them from wandering, from seeking skin, from exploring hardness and flesh. My hips, however…they have a will of their own. They tilt, push, and drive.

He groans again in his sleep and pushes against me. His erection is a thick ridge behind his zipper. The slide of denim against denim is noisy in my ears, and his heartbeat quickens.

"Mmmm." His drowsy growl is rough and quiet.

I know this can go nowhere; I am only torturing myself.

But yet…my face tilts and I seek his skin, find his throat with my nose and lips, taste the pulse at his throat, my fists knotting in his shirt.

He exhales, and his hips push against mine, his erection driving against my sex, making me bury my lips against his throat and mewl as arousal sears through me from core to crown, heart to hands. He rumbles and his huge powerful hands tense, flex, and twitch against me. Another shift of his hips, another growl, and I can feel him waking. His hands scour my back, roaming from shoulders to shoulder blades, mid-back to lower back. My breath snags in my throat as he cups my ass, fingers tightening in the swell of flesh and muscle, and then slipping back upward to the gap between T-shirt and jeans. The pound of my pulse becomes frenetic when his hands find flesh, sliding up my spine, carving over bare skin to my shoulder blades and back down, dipping under the waist of my jeans, under the elastic of my panties to clutch hot skin.