Page 41

“You should.”

“Malachi.” She pulled her wrist free and placed her palm flat against my chest, right over my heart. Her hand was small and warm, and I could feel the calluses on her fingertips from years of sewing costumes. “Stop trying to protect me from myself.”

“I’m not trying to protect you. I’m trying to protect me.”

“From what?”

“From wanting you more than I want to leave this place.”

Her breath caught. For a long moment she just looked at me, her hand warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat. A small scar ran along her collarbone where she’d caught herself on a piece of broken scenery months ago. I’d watched her bleed and told myself it didn’t matter.

Then she kissed me.

Hard. Desperate. Her mouth opened under mine, and her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer. I backed her toward the cot, let her fall onto the narrow mattress, then followed her down, my weight pressing her into the rough blanket.

“Tell me to stop,” I said against her mouth.

“No.”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

“I want this.” Her hands moved to the buttons of my shirt, fumbling with them in the dim light. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the first night you told me I didn’t have to stay here.”

Getting the shirt off, I tossed it aside, then reached for the hem of her slip. She lifted her hips to help me pull it over her head, and then she was bare beneath me, her skin pale in the lamplight, her chest rising and falling fast. A birthmark shaped like a crescent moon sat just below her left breast. I traced it with my thumb, and she shivered.

“You’re beautiful,” I said.

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.” Running my hand down her side, I felt her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. “I’ve thought about this every night since I kissed you. Thought about what you’d look like under me. What you’d sound like when you came.”

“Then stop talking and fuck me.”

The bluntness of it made me laugh. “You want it rough?”

“I want it real.” Her hands moved to my belt, working the buckle open with quick, efficient movements. “I’m tired of watching people pretend on that stage. I want something that isn’t a performance.”

Getting my trousers off, I settled between her thighs, feeling the heat of her against my cock. She was already wet. Her hips tilted up, seeking friction, and when I pressed the head of my cock against her entrance, she gasped. Her hands gripped my shoulders, and I felt her nails dig in, leaving marks I’d see tomorrow.

“Look at me, little flower,” I said.

Her eyes opened. Dark. Defiant. Hungry. The same look she gave me every time I told her to do something she didn’t want to do.

“Say my name.”

“Malachi.”

Pushing inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust, I watched her face as she took me. Her mouth fell open. Her hands gripped my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Her body stretched around me, tight and perfect, and when I was fully seated inside her, she let out a low, broken sound that went straight to my spine. A sound I knew I’d hear in my head for the rest of my life.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

“You feel that?”

“Yes.”