Page 28 of Lash

I whimper, rubbing against his erection. "Lash," I breathe.

"Mmmm," he murmurs.

I can't help myself. I seek his flesh, his hard muscle, the cut lines of his predator's body. I feel the grooves and ridges of his abs, his ribs, and the fine nerve endings in my fingertips find the raised lines of scars and the hard divots of bullet holes and the smeared smoothness of burns, and the subtle give of muscle.

I look up at him, and his eyes are black holes, voids piercing me with sharp wild life, blazing with desire. I scrape my hands over his pecs, his flat nipples pebbling under my hands, and his grip curls into my ass, and I rub against him; heat billows in my belly, flows with the inexorability of lava, a pyroclastic surge of primal female hunger.

"Tatiana," comes his voice, a growl I feel in my bones, in my sex, in my soul.

I mewl again, rub against him, and his black eyes burn into mine, fiery with fierce need.

"We can't," he murmurs. "Not here, not now, not like this."

I taste the skin of his throat, salty and stubble-rough below the neckline of his beard. "I know," I breathe.

"Never have I wished so badly for privacy," he whispers. “Touching you, feeling the beauty of your body, I can almost forget."

I don't need to know what he can almost forget. The details are irrelevant; the sorrow is all that matters. His heart has calcified in his chest, has become a xenolith.

I dig my fingernails into his chest and find his mouth and I kiss him. He grips my ass so tightly it almost hurts, and he kisses me back, and now finally his lips part and his tongue steals in against mine. I gasp into the kiss as heat pounds in my belly, expanding into my core, making my thighs shake and my breath comes hard and short, and I taste his tongue, his breath; I swallow a soft growl in response to the helpless push of my sex against his erection. He kisses me and kisses me, and my eyesflutter closed, and I grip the huge hard mounds of his shoulders and grind against him.

"Tatiana," he whispers. "Have mercy on me. We cannot."

"I know," I whimper. "But I…I can't not. I crave you, Lash."

I pant into his kiss, and my hips flex in a slow, sinuous writhe, pushing burgeoning heat through my body like a bubble on the verve of bursting.

"It's just you, Lash," I whisper, grinding against him, feeling desperate in a way I haven't since I was a teenaged girl in the back of my first boyfriend's car. "I don't know. I don't know."

Lash rolls me to my back, putting me between himself and the wall, hiding me with the bulk of his body. He leans into me and his palm covers my bare belly, rough and hard against soft skin. I hold his eyes, hold still. The train sways, theclack-clack clack-clack clack-clacka muffled metronome rhythm. He dips his fingertips under the button of my jeans, and I reach down, flick open the button, lower the zipper. Beg with my eyes, with the push of my hips.

"Tatiana," he whispers. "We can't. I can't."

"Please," I breathe. "Just…touch me, Lash."

"My hands, my soul," he murmurs, "they are not clean."

I catch his free hand in mine, press his palm to my cheek. Nuzzle his palm, kiss his wrist. Drag his hand to my throat, keeping my eyes locked on his. Guide his hand down to cover my breast where my nipple presses diamond-hard through the fabric of my bra and shirt.

His answering growl is low and hungry and frustrated, and his fingertips steal lower, under the elastic of my panties, scraping sensuously over my skin, and I press my hand over his against my breast and tilt my hips in another silent plea. I feel his middle finger slide to the top of my slit, and then his touch glides down my seam and I whimper.

He presses his mouth to mine. "Hush, Lovely One. You must be quiet. I will not share these beautiful sounds you make with anyone."

I am no exhibitionist; I am a private person. I avoid public displays of affection, much less anything like this. I have never been daring, sexually. I prefer the quiet solitude of my home: lights dimmed, door closed, and blinds drawn so only breath, touch, and flesh remain. I like the mystery of touch in the dark, blind kisses and finding each other without sight, relying on touch and trust.

But with Lash I am different. I know him, down to his soul—I know his sorrow, I know the shape of his torment; I know how deeply he has kept his heart buried, how tightly he locked down his need, his desire. He’s an enigma, more at home in the shadows than light.

I do not care who hears.

In fact, what I hear from the bunk above is the sound of kisses, and a soft feminine gasp, and a low male laugh. I hear the bunk shift, creaking. Lorenzo snores on the topmost bunk opposite.

I mate my fingers to Lash’s inside my jeans and underwear, guiding his fingers inside me. I hold his eyes, let him see the need bursting through me, the ecstasy of his touch. I push my sex against him, writhe on his finger as it delves inside me.

His brows furrow and his jaw clenches.

"Who is clean in this world, Lash?" I ask. "Who is innocent? I am not."

"But I—"