Page 30 of What You left in Me

The seatbelt across his chest strains and he shoves it off with a rough slash of movement and the click is obscene in the quiet.

I grind closer to him, dress dragging over the console, knee braced awkwardly, ankle knocking against the cup holder. His hand forsakes the wheel to bracket my hip, thumb pressing into the bottom of my spine, where the end of the zipper is. Every inch of him feels wound tight, a live wire wrapped in an immaculate tux.

My thigh slides along the console until it finds the narrow bridge of space, and then I’m using the stability to strain forward, my entire body a wide-open yes that terrifies me even as it drowns me. The horn booms when the curve of my ass lands against it and we both jerk back, stunned into a half laugh that breaks into another kiss because the alternative is remembering who we are.

God, I don’t know where to put my hands.

Everywhere is the right place.

Here, at his jaw, rough with end-of-night stubble that scrapes my palms. There, at his open collar, invited by his warm skin and the jump of a pulse that matches the chaos roaring in my chest. There’s the line of his shoulder, too… his broad chest and the muscular torso it tapers down towards.

I need to bring him closer, and there’s no closer left.

He drags his mouth from mine and I chase it, wrecked by the loss. His breath is harsh against my cheek. “Ariane…”

“Don’t,” I pant, not sure if I mean don’t say my name or don’t stop or don’t try to be good for ten seconds. I know we’re going to regret this later but right now all I want is more. My fingers curl in his shirt and I pull. The top button gives with a small surrendering pop. “Just—”

He swears, low and rasping, and then he’s kissing me again, deeper,meaner, like the rest of the world’s run out of oxygen and he found the last tank in my mouth. He tastes exquisite. The universe has become nothing but heat and the fresh shock of finally, finally knocking the mask off the thing we’ve been pretending isn’t there.

Cool air hits the back of my thigh; his fingers find bare skin and I could sob with how good it feels to be held and not handled.

“Look at me,” he orders against my mouth.

I do.

And oh, this is so much worse.

The eye contact strips whatever’s left of my excuses. His pupils are blown wide, the thin gray ring pooled around them like stormwater. I can see the exact moment he decides to stop pretending this is a mistake and start pretending it’s inevitable.

I kiss the corner of his mouth, the hard line of his jaw. He sucks in a breath, as my lips skim down the column of is throat, mouthing at the small scar I’d been enraptured by from the passenger seat moments ago, and back up. My hands slide under his jacket, palms dragging over every inch I can get to, memorizing the architecture of his glorious body.

He exhales a broken laugh. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Get in line,” I whisper.

His hand is back at my throat then, his thumb stroking where my pulse riots.

“Ariane,” he says again, reverent over the syllables of my strange, mythic name.

It sounds so tender, my gaze drops to my hands at his chest. That’s where it ends: the sight of my engagement ring against the disarray of his clothes. My stomach lurching, I rear back from him, shoving away with both hands to give myself space where there isn’t any. I made sure of that, didn’t I?

The cold rushes in and with it the wordfiancé; an awful, undeniable flare of shame consumes me. I turn toward the window because I cannot look at him and hold myself together at the same time. Only to find that I can’t stand the sight of myself either.

“We can’t,” I say. My voice is wrecked. “Oh my God… we can’t.”

The silence that follows is not forgiving.

I feel the heat of him recede inch by inch like he’s pulling his shadow off me.

For a second, I realize that I expect him to argue, to coax, to say my name like an answer. A part of me wants him to, desperately.

The breathing I hear is his, rough, steadying himself with visible effort.

My eyes sting pathetically. I press my forehead to the cool glass, and two traitorous tears slide down my cheeks, leaving little cold tracks. I hate myself for them. I hate myself for wanting more.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, crawling out of his lap and back into my own seat. The words taste bitter in my mouth. “I shouldn’t have…”

“Stop.” His voice is low, almost calm. “Don’t apologize to me.”