presses closer and I realize I’m paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in my lungs. My eyes snap open and he licks his bottom lip for the smallest second and something in my brain bursts to life.
I gasp. I gasp. I gasp. “What are you doing —”
“Juliette, please —” His voice is anxious and he glances behind him like he’s not sure we’re alone. “The other night—” He presses his lips together. He closes his eyes for half of a second and I marvel at the drop drop drops of hot water caught in his eyelashes like pearls forged from pain. His fingers inch up the sides of my body like he’s struggling to keep them in one place, like he’s struggling not to touch me everywhere everywhere everywhere and his eyes are drinking in the 63 inches of my frame and I’m so I’m so I’m so
caught.
“I finally get it now,” he says into my ear. “I know—I know why Warner wants you.” His fingertips are 10 points of electricity killing me with something I’ve never known before. Something I’ve always wanted to feel.
“Then why are you here?” I whisper, broken, dying in his arms. “Why . . .” 1, 2 attempts at inhalation. “Why are you touching me?”
“Because I can .” He almost cracks a smile and I almost sprout a pair of wings. “I already have.”
“What?” I blink, suddenly sobered. “What do you mean?”
“That first night in the cell,” he sighs. He looks down. “You were screaming in your sleep.”
I wait.
I wait.
I wait forever.
“I touched your face.” He speaks into the shape of my ear. “Your hand. I brushed the length of your arm. . . .” He pulls back and his eyes rest at my shoulder, trail down to my elbow, land on my wrist. I’m suspended in disbelief. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You wouldn’t wake up. So I sat back and watched you. I waited for you to stop screaming.”
“That’s. Not. Possible.” 3 words are all I manage.
But his hands become arms around my waist his lips become a cheek pressed against my cheek and his body is flush against mine, his skin touching me touching me touching me and he’s not screaming he’s not dying he’s not running away from me and I’m crying
I’m choking
I’m shaking shuddering splintering into teardrops
and he’s holding me the way no one has ever held me before.
Like he wants me.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he says, and his mouth is moving against my hair and his hands are traveling to my arms and I’m leaning back and he’s looking into my eyes and I must be dreaming.
“Why—why do you—I don’t—” I’m shaking my head and shaking because this can’t be happening and shaking off the tears glued to my face. This can’t be real.
His eyes gentle, his smile unhinges my joints and I wish I knew the taste of his lips. I wish I had the courage to touch him. “I have to go,” he says. “You have to be dressed and downstairs by eight o’clock.”
I’m drowning in his eyes and I don’t know what to say.
He peels off his shirt and I don’t know where to look.
I catch myself on the glass panel and press my eyes shut and blink when something flutters too close. His fingers are a moment from my face and I’m dripping burning melting in anticipation.
“You don’t have to look away,” he says. He says it with a small smile the size of Jupiter.
I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin I want to savor, at the color in his eyes I’d use to paint a million pictures. I follow the line of his jaw down his neck to the peak of his collarbone; I memorize the sculpted hills and valleys of his arms, the perfection of his torso. The bird on his chest.
The bird on his chest.
A tattoo.
A white bird with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. It’s flying.
“Adam,” I try to tell him. “Adam,” I try to choke out. “Adam,” I try to say so many times and fail.
I try to find his eyes only to realize he’s been watching me study him.
I gasp. I gasp. I gasp. “What are you doing —”
“Juliette, please —” His voice is anxious and he glances behind him like he’s not sure we’re alone. “The other night—” He presses his lips together. He closes his eyes for half of a second and I marvel at the drop drop drops of hot water caught in his eyelashes like pearls forged from pain. His fingers inch up the sides of my body like he’s struggling to keep them in one place, like he’s struggling not to touch me everywhere everywhere everywhere and his eyes are drinking in the 63 inches of my frame and I’m so I’m so I’m so
caught.
“I finally get it now,” he says into my ear. “I know—I know why Warner wants you.” His fingertips are 10 points of electricity killing me with something I’ve never known before. Something I’ve always wanted to feel.
“Then why are you here?” I whisper, broken, dying in his arms. “Why . . .” 1, 2 attempts at inhalation. “Why are you touching me?”
“Because I can .” He almost cracks a smile and I almost sprout a pair of wings. “I already have.”
“What?” I blink, suddenly sobered. “What do you mean?”
“That first night in the cell,” he sighs. He looks down. “You were screaming in your sleep.”
I wait.
I wait.
I wait forever.
“I touched your face.” He speaks into the shape of my ear. “Your hand. I brushed the length of your arm. . . .” He pulls back and his eyes rest at my shoulder, trail down to my elbow, land on my wrist. I’m suspended in disbelief. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You wouldn’t wake up. So I sat back and watched you. I waited for you to stop screaming.”
“That’s. Not. Possible.” 3 words are all I manage.
But his hands become arms around my waist his lips become a cheek pressed against my cheek and his body is flush against mine, his skin touching me touching me touching me and he’s not screaming he’s not dying he’s not running away from me and I’m crying
I’m choking
I’m shaking shuddering splintering into teardrops
and he’s holding me the way no one has ever held me before.
Like he wants me.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he says, and his mouth is moving against my hair and his hands are traveling to my arms and I’m leaning back and he’s looking into my eyes and I must be dreaming.
“Why—why do you—I don’t—” I’m shaking my head and shaking because this can’t be happening and shaking off the tears glued to my face. This can’t be real.
His eyes gentle, his smile unhinges my joints and I wish I knew the taste of his lips. I wish I had the courage to touch him. “I have to go,” he says. “You have to be dressed and downstairs by eight o’clock.”
I’m drowning in his eyes and I don’t know what to say.
He peels off his shirt and I don’t know where to look.
I catch myself on the glass panel and press my eyes shut and blink when something flutters too close. His fingers are a moment from my face and I’m dripping burning melting in anticipation.
“You don’t have to look away,” he says. He says it with a small smile the size of Jupiter.
I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin I want to savor, at the color in his eyes I’d use to paint a million pictures. I follow the line of his jaw down his neck to the peak of his collarbone; I memorize the sculpted hills and valleys of his arms, the perfection of his torso. The bird on his chest.
The bird on his chest.
A tattoo.
A white bird with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. It’s flying.
“Adam,” I try to tell him. “Adam,” I try to choke out. “Adam,” I try to say so many times and fail.
I try to find his eyes only to realize he’s been watching me study him.
Similar Books
