She heard, rather than felt, her coffee cup slip from her slackened fingers and crash to the ground beside her in an ungraceful splatter.
He had broken stride at her unexpected appearance, gazing into her eyes with disbelief as he closed the scant distance between them.
Jane sighed with involuntary pleasure watching him. He was so beautiful, materializing out of the mist like magic, so familiar, and yet so devastatingly impossible, her heart wouldn’t let her look away even though her mind acknowledged the sharp and shredding certainty that he didn’t belong to her. Surely, he would walk by her, without a glance, without a word, and vanish into the otherworldly gauze of mist behind her, elusive and unobtainable.
But he didn’t walk by.
He stopped in front of her, the heat from his body startling her as she stared—helpless, undone—at his chest, unable to move, holding her breath.
“Jane,” he breathed, low and fierce, in disbelief or anger or surrender. Her eyes fluttered closed against the anguished mosaic of feelings she heard in the way he said her name. Her aching heart took comfort in the desperate intensity she heard in his voice, because she recognized it, and she longed to answer it by sharing the strength and depth of her own struggles.
If her chest didn’t feel so physically tight from the force of her heart thumping against her gasping lungs, which grounded her in reality, she may have believed she was still asleep, still dreaming. She had been holding her breath, but she released it in a sob, gasping for another gulp of air quickly, wild not to break the moment. It felt unreal, like a spell; too fragile, too dreamlike to be possible.
The backs of his fingers caressed her chin before lifting it, and when she opened her eyes, she caught hold of his, which were…shattered. And not just that…betrayed. Betrayed. His shoulders moved up and down with the force of his breathing, and his face contorted, searching hers frantically.
Jane had only one thought that she embedded unconsciously in her gaze:
I am yours.
His eyes widened, briefly reading hers, and without warning his lips descended, furious and punishing. His teeth clashed against hers as he growled into her mouth, his corded arms imprisoning her against the wall of his chest as he slanted his mouth over hers again and again. Desperate to touch him, she writhed against him like a wild thing, pushing at him, desperate to loosen her trapped arms from the cage of his body.
Still kissing him, struggling free, she moved her hands up to his face, her cold fingers settling on the feverish ridge of skin under his eyes. She felt him flinch beneath her palms, and he sobbed into her throat, his fingers curling in defeat on her lower back.
She quieted his despair, cradling his face in her small white hands, her gentleness a ballast to the rawness of his fury. Moving her lips against his with a slow, soothing rhythm, she tenderly coaxed his tongue to love hers, to stop fighting.
As he surrendered to her, he seemed to lean into her compassion with exhaustion, in gratitude. She felt his passion shift from anger to tenderness and slid her hands into his hair, arching her body against his, melting into him, at his mercy even as he acquiesced to her.
Settling into the kiss, neither able nor willing to break away from the other, they moved lightly to the rhythm of their beating hearts, clasped to one another as the mist swirled around them. Lars’s hands finally uncoiled and he held her as gently as he would something precious. Jane gradually lowered her hands from his face until they laced at the back of his neck, as she would if he belonged to her.
After a while, she drew back, tucking her head under his chin, which she felt on top of her head as his arms tightened around her.
“Jane,” he sighed, in a broken whisper, and she tilted her head to look up into his eyes. They were fraught—still hungry, but also mired in injury, which confused her because she was the injured party between them. She lowered her hands from his neck and his arms went slack, letting go of her, stepping away.
“Lars?” she murmured, her body still tingling, still reeling, her brows furrowed in confusion and frustration.
“You’re killing me…you’re…” He shook his head, looking down. “I can’t do this, Jane.”
“I’m killing you?” Her mouth opened and she shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sure Paul could help you figure it out.”
“Paul?” Paul? What does Paul have to do with this? “Paul! What are you talking about?”
“I saw you.”
“Saw what?”
“Don’t play games with me!”
“Me play games? That’s rich! How dare you!”
“How dare I? How dare you!”
“You’re not making any sense,” she snapped.
“Neither are you!”
“I’m…I’m leaving. I have things to do.”
“Good! Go already!”
“I will! I’m going!” She pivoted and started walking away, but he grabbed her hand as it swung back and jerked her back up against his body. In one whip-fast motion, he placed his hands firmly on her hips and leaned down with unerring precision, sealing his lips over hers, demanding, branding. And too brief. As he drew back from her, his eyes flashed and glinted like jagged glass sweeping sharply over her face.
“I’m getting the van. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes,” he growled, his hands still holding her hips.
“Fine,” she spat, frowning at him. “I think you should quit kissing me.”
His lips twitched up and he leaned down one last time, brushing his lips against hers with an agonizing, almost unbelievable, gentleness that made her knees so weak, she swayed when he released her without a word or glance, and walked into the mist.
Jane took a deep breath, filling her lungs, turning her neck to watch him go, utterly confused by what the heck had just happened, and praying to God it would happen again.
***
Goddamn it, Lars, what is the matter with you?
He poured himself a cup of coffee at the kiosk, waving hello to the front desk clerk, and sat down in the lobby, waiting for Samara’s team to gather in the lobby. If he hadn’t gotten such a rotten night’s sleep, he wouldn’t have been up so early…he wouldn’t have left so early…he wouldn’t have bumped into—
Damn it, Lars! He had been so wound up over her, wanting her, feeling rejected by her, to suddenly see her walk out of the mist had been an occasion for which he was wholly unprepared. He meant to walk right past her, without a look, without a word, but he was drawn to her like a magnet, and somehow found himself standing in front of her.
But it was her eyes that had propelled his mouth onto hers.
Her eyes that told him some part of her still wanted him, whether she was with Paul or not. He was so angry at her, so hurt, he had grabbed her roughly up against his body, slammed his lips down on hers so mercilessly, their teeth had clashed.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!
When she fought against him, pushing at him, it struck him that his behavior was deeply inappropriate. He had loosened his grip so she could pull back, and smack him good across the face. So feeling her small hands reach up to caress his face had shocked the hell out of him, and his whole body had reacted to her tenderness; all he wanted to do after that was show her how much he liked her, how much he wanted her, how fine and dear and irreplaceable she was to him.