Page 97 of Reasons We Break
He leans down to her. It’s a closed-mouth, simple kiss. Long enough for her to get comfortable with the press of his lips. When her hands fist the material of his hoodie, he lifts away and then comes back, head tilted the other way, his mouth coaxing hers with gentle brushes, nibbles.Like this, he seems to be saying, before returning from a different angle.And this.
A part of her she didn’t know existed rises up to this challenge, matching him in counterpoint and pace.Like this, and this, and this. Mouths together and then apart, together and apart. Together, for longer this time. Much longer...His fingers sink into her hair. She wraps her arms around his neck, on her tiptoes, him bending her back slightly to accommodate their height difference. His tongue brushes hers. Heat sweeps through her, and she seeks it again, wanting to learn this part, too. And,oh, this is something different.
Her lungs burn, but he doesn’t seem to have the same oxygen demands as her, he keeps kissing her and kissing her andkissing her, and eventually she has to turn her head away and gasp for air. It’s a good thing he’s holding her up because she’s not certain she could stand otherwise.
Worry overtakes her then. Is he enjoying this as much as she is? She clutches his arms. “Am—am I doing this right?”
Rajan goes still, and for a second she fears the worst. Then he grabs the backs of her thighs and hoists her up. She squeaks as he raises her just above his eye level.
“Sahiba.” His eyes are bottomless. “Ifthat’swhat you’re thinking about,I’mthe one who’s not doing it right.”
And then he throws her onto the bed.
Well—he doesn’tthrowher, exactly, but it happens rather fast. He carries her over in two long strides, and then the mattress bounces as her back hits it, her hair fanning around her. She doesn’t have time to process how he does it so smoothly because then he’s crawling over her, her mattress bowing to accommodate the additional weight.
From above, his mouth descends on her again. His kisses take on a frantic edge, like he’s on the clock. Like at any moment a bell might sound, a clangingWrong! Wrong! Wrong!that makes him desperate to wring as much out of her as he can in the time they have. And it’s infectious.
She wants more. He’s not being daring enough for her liking—one hand cradling her jaw, the other on the pillow beside her head. Keenly aware of this unknown, terrifying clock counting down on them, she voices her urgency in the least intelligible way possible. “Touch me,” she gasps between kisses. “Touch me touch me touch me—”
He pulls away to ask, “Where?”
“Anywhere,” she replies, and marvels at how safe she feels saying that to him. “Anywhere you want.”
However, Rajan’s eyes flutter shut as if in pain.“Simran.”
Her own name sweeps over her skin. NotSahiba. NotAuntie. Certainly notdude. Just...Sim-ruhn, the syllables of her gently pried apart so he could place a kiss between them. She wonders if this is why he’s never said her name by itself before. If it was always going to sound like this.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says roughly, andthenhe touches her. And she feels like she’s jumped from the pot into the fire. Because she was right—his unleashed hands do absolutely scandalous things under her shirt, over her body, each touch warm and wanting and teasing andtaking. He touches her with the certainty of someone who studied her map and plotted his route years ago. He’s not exploring; he’sconfirming.And she. Could. Drown in it.
“Say my name again,” she pleads, clutching the back of his neck and staring at the ceiling, feeling completely delirious. She’ll probably be embarrassed with the things she’s demanding of him later, but she doesn’t care.
He obliges her. “Simran.” He noses the collar of her shirt away to press his lips to her bare shoulder. “Simran. Simran.Simran.”
Each utterance of her name is another kiss. Each one feels like another barrier between them that they’re recklessly destroying, that can never be rebuilt. When his teeth tug down her bra strap, an involuntary noise escapes her. It’s breathy and sort of embarrassing. But he stills.
“You’re not playing fair, making sounds like that.” His voice is ragged. “You know that shit’s never gonna leave my brain.”
In response, she tugs at his hoodie. “Take thisoff.”
He shucks his hoodie off easy, without comment, the white undershirt beneath momentarily rucking up with it. She can only admire how he makes eventhisthoughtless motion incredibly rewarding to her eyes.
His hoodie makes a dull thud as it joins her mess of clothes already on the floor. She hungrily takes in the acres of brown skin she’s unearthed—the delicate lines of his throat and collarbones, the bolder ones of his arms and chest, and that tattoo crawling over his jugular.
While she’s running her hands all over him, Rajan says, unevenly, “See? No gunshot wounds.”
She pauses, remembering how he’d clutched his shoulder earlier. She prods the joint with her thumb. And there. A sharp intake of breath, subtle but noticeable without the hoodie.
Her haze ofsee-want-touchinstantly washes away. She sits up, forcing him up, too. “Youarehurt!”
“It’s nothing.” He smooths Simran’s hair back. “Just my shoulder, that’s all, I can keep going—”
“Let me see.”
With a sigh, he rolls off her and onto his back. This view is surreal: Rajan in her bed, her strawberry-patterned sheets twisted around him. She swings a leg over his torso to straddle him. Funny how she suddenly feels completely comfortable doing this.
Rajan seems to think so, too, because he raises an eyebrow. Before he can comment, she prods his shoulder again, making him wince. “What happened?”
“It got dislocated.”