We’re locked in time, in a moment of truth. That’s what danger does. Facing the consequences of treacherous actions makes you look at things differently. Facing death makes you see things in perspective. For me, there’s only ever been one perspective. It’s the woman facing me. For her, it’s more complicated. A war wages in her pretty eyes as the truth plays over her face. She wants me, but she’s fighting it. She’s been fighting it even as she tried to seduce me on Christmas night.
I don’t take. I promised myself I wouldn’t unless she’s ready and willing to take the first step. I offer her my hand, waiting with an outstretched arm. A second ticks by. Another. Her fingers tighten around the velvet bag in her left hand. Ever so slowly, she raises her right hand and places her palm in mine. I close my fingers around hers, firmly but not too tightly. There. Safe and secure.
We don’t need words as we climb through the fence and walk back to the cabin. As long as our fingers are linked together, the moment is unbreakable and our connection intact.
Electricity zaps between us. It runs in the air and under my skin. I feel her like I feel my own heartbeat in my chest. I breathe her like I inhale the warm air. Inside the cabin, I lock the door without letting go of her hand. I’m too scared to break the connection, too terrified I’d lose the awareness balancing on a narrow ledge.
She leans against the wall next to the door, bending one leg and resting a foot on the bricks. Chewing her lip, she regards me from under the visor of her cap. What she wants is written in her eyes. Our intertwined fingers hang at our sides. Using my free hand, I take her cap off and drop it on the coffee table before gently brushing her hair from her face. She reaches up, takes off my cap, and dumps it next to hers. My hair falls over one side of my face, veiling her pretty features behind a curtain. She’s every bit the doll I first set eyes on, gorgeous and perfect in every way. I want her so much my balls ache, but the need in my heart is much greater. It hurts a hell of a lot more.
Like our fingers, our gazes remain locked. Holding my breath, I wait. I’m not going to ask for anything she’s not prepared to give. I’ll settle for this moment, which is as close to perfect as any moment I’ll ever get. Finally, there’s no more masks and pretenses. I give her my truth, and she shows me hers. I embrace the moment, owning it with everything inside me, but I’m ready to step away if she needs more time or space.
Just as I’m about to let her go, she curls her fingers around my nape. A mountain of weight lifts off my chest. The dirty, dark fog trapped between my ribs dissipates, and light sifts in. Leaning closer, I press our foreheads together. I close my eyes briefly, taking a moment to inhale the clean scent of her skin.
She tilts her hips ever so slightly, just enough to brush against me. I place a hand on her waist, reading her expression as I brush a thumb under the T-shirt over her naked skin. Her pupils dilate. Her lips part. We’re locked in a lover’s embrace, and for the first time in a year, I’m where I’m supposed to be.
We don’t kiss or jump each other. The moment is too precious, too charged. I’ve never gone to church, but this is what it must feel like. Holy. Enough. Dragging my nose along her hairline to her temple, I inhale her existence. Alive. My miracle.
I nuzzle the soft spot behind her ear and give her more softly spoken truths. “You’re mine, Cas. You’ll always be.”
I pull away to measure her reaction and make sure she understands. This is important. It’s vital she gets this. I may not get another chance to tell her. A man like me, a fugitive on the run, knows to make the most of every opportunity. Opportunities are more precious than diamonds and dollar bills. Sometimes they’re rarer.
“You’re not mine because I own you, but because you own me.” Lifting our locked hands to my chest, I place her hand over my heart. “You live in here, inside me, and you always will, no matter who comes after me or who takes my place. You’ll always be a part of me. I’ll always belong to you. That’s why you’re mine.”
Her blue eyes glisten with tears. They sparkle like the diamonds in her pocket. “Stop talking,” she says, pulling her hand from under mine where it rests on my chest and cupping my face to drag me closer.
I surrender with a groan, framing her face between my palms and meeting her halfway with a smothering kiss.
The tension shatters.
A year’s worth of wasted time flows away. It drains with my inhibitions as I devour her mouth and taste her lips like it’s our first kiss. With her, every time is a first. Every time is a last.
She raises on tiptoes, arching her back and pressing her body against mine while our tongues tangle and our breaths mingle. She tastes like mint toothpaste and strawberry lipstick. Her lips are plump and juicy. They give with a pop when I release her mouth to kiss my way down her neck. There’s a lot of skin to cover, a lot I’ve missed out on. My willpower is sloppy, but my kisses are skilled. I know how to get her there with me. I know what she likes.
She mewls when I graze my teeth over the soft skin where her neck meets her shoulder. I’m careful of her wounded shoulder, making sure I don’t touch the stitches. I drag my hands from her face down her body, cupping her slender waist, wishing I could hold her like this forever. She yanks my T-shirt from my jeans and works loose my buckle. When she pulls down the zipper and dips her hand inside, I nearly lose all reason. She strokes my cock through my briefs, squeezing her fingers around the crest. Angling my hips toward her, I rub myself in her palm.
Too soon, she abandons my dick and drags her hands up my chest under my T-shirt. I reciprocate, lifting her T-shirt to palm her flat stomach and the lace-covered curves of her breasts. She pulls up the hem of my T-shirt, showing me what she wants. I take my hands off her for only as long as it takes to pull the T-shirt over my head. I’m eager to get back to my exploration. My hands are all over her, under her clothes and on top of them, feeling, palming, squeezing like a man starved for touch.
Somehow, between our tangled arms and groping hands, we manage to get rid of her T-shirt. I slow down, taking my time to kiss a path down her cleavage as she wiggles my jeans over my hips. I take a moment to remove them completely and work on the button of hers. She dives for my lips, kissing me while I undress her and making me forget where we are and why.
It’s our first time after a year. I’m not going to take her against the wall. It takes willpower to grab her wrists and pull her hands away from me. She lets me, trusting me even when I put space between us. I take another moment, this time to visually reacquaint myself with her body. She’s wearing a matching set of purple underwear. The purple color matches the color on her lips. Plum has always looked good on her. I drink her in from her head to her toes, missing nothing, especially not the small, round scar on her side. The sight of that scar burns into my brain like a branding iron. It hurts me more than a bullet ever can.
“Hey,” she says, reaching for me. “I’m here.”
I lift my gaze from the scar to her face, emotions playing havoc in my gut. She told me only once she loved me, and it was right before I’d gotten her shot.
“Cas.”
Knowing what I need, she wraps her arms around my waist and burrows her head under my chin. I fold my arms around her, holding on for life. Holding on for forever. I can’t lose her again.