Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Or maybe that's my heartbeat.
I can't tell anymore.
"Because?" His mouth finds my neck again, and this time when his teeth scrape, it's harder. Possessive. "Finish the sentence, Thea."
"Because of you," I manage. "Because you're—because I—"
His hand slides under the fabric now. Skin on skin.
I stop breathing entirely.
The cold air, the snow, the fact that we're in an alley where anyone could see—none of it matters. Nothing matters except the feeling of his hand on my bare skin, his thumb brushing over me without any barrier, the way my entire body goes taut and liquid at the same time.
"You what?" His voice is rough against my throat. "Finish it."
But I can't finish the sentence because his thumb is circling now, slow and deliberate, and every coherent thought I've ever had evaporates.
"This," he says quietly, "is not a phase."
His thumb circles again, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would definitely carry in this quiet alley.
"This—" He does it again, firmer this time. "—is not a story."
Again. My hands fist harder in his jacket, and I'm grateful for the brick wall behind me because my legs have stopped working properly.
"This is—" His voice drops even lower. "This is me, not being able to watch you laugh with another man. Not being able to watch you touch his arm. Not being able to stand the thought that he makes you feel easy when I make you feel—" He stops. "What do I make you feel?"
"Too much." The words come out broken, gasping. "You make me feel too much."
"Good." His hand moves, and I gasp. "Because I feel too much too. I feel—" He stops again, and I can hear the frustration in his voice, the way he's struggling for words. "I do not have words for what I feel."
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing whatever sound I was about to make. His hand keeps moving, keeps touching me in ways that make me shake, make my hands fist in his jacket so hard I'm probably leaving permanent wrinkles, make me forget every reason this is a bad idea.
The snow is falling harder now. I can feel it on my face, cold against my flushed skin. But Santino is warm, his body pressed against mine, one hand in my hair and the other under my shirt, and I'm burning up from the inside out.
My breathing is coming faster now, shallower, and he notices. Of course he notices. He notices everything about me.
His hand moves with more purpose now, more intent, like he's reading my body the way he probably reads a track before a race—learning the curves, finding the rhythm.
"Tell me—" His voice is rough. Strained. "Tell me you understand now."
"I...”
His hand moves faster, more deliberate, and I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. "That you are not invisible. That when I am here—" Another movement, his thumb pressing exactly where I need it. "—with you—" Again. "—this is the only place I want to be."
I'm shaking now. Really shaking. Every nerve ending on fire, every thought reduced to the feeling of his hand on me, the taste of his mouth when he kisses me again, the solid weight of his body keeping me upright against the brick.
"Santino—" My voice breaks. "I can't—I'm going to—"
"Yes." His mouth is at my ear now, his breath hot against my skin. "Yes. Let go."
"But we're—someone might—"
"Let go, Thea." His thumb presses harder, circles faster, and his voice drops to something commanding. "Let go for me."
And I do.
Something inside me breaks apart—shatters into a thousand pieces—and I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle the sound. My whole body goes taut for a heartbeat, two, and then I'm falling, waves of sensation rolling through me that I've never felt before, while Santino’s hand doesn’t stop moving, drawing it out until I'm trembling and boneless and completely wrecked against the brick wall.
When I can finally breathe again, when the world stops spinning and I remember how my legs are supposed to work, I realize he's kissing my temple. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperation from before.
"You are not," he says quietly against my hair, "a phase."
I can't speak. Can only stand there with his hand still under my shirt, his body still pressed against mine, trying to remember how to function as a human being.
Slowly—so slowly—he withdraws his hand. Smooths down my shirt with careful fingers. Helps me straighten my coat, his movements gentle and deliberate, like I'm something fragile he doesn't want to break.
His hand cups my face, tilting it up so I have to look at him.
His expression—
There's no mask. No professional distance. Just him. Raw and open and looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.