Immortal Consequences(120)
August stared at her, hands still clamped over the edge of the desk. When neither of them moved, he shifted his gaze toward the bandage.
“Thank you…for this. It feels better.”
Wren cleared her throat. “Of course.”
August still didn’t move. He seemed paralyzed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.
Wren took a chance. She threaded her thoughts into his.
Is there something else you need?
He looked up in surprise. There was a moment of hesitation before she felt his thoughts slither into her mind.
No…not need.
Wren closed the distance between them, her steps slow and steady, until she was standing right in front of him, placing herself back between his knees.
But you want something.
August reached out and threaded his index finger around hers, pulling her closer. It was far gentler than the other times he’d touched her, so soft she barely felt his fingers grazing her skin.
“What I want has never mattered,” he whispered out loud.
“It should matter.”
“Life isn’t that simple.” A muscle in his neck leapt. “And death even less, I’m afraid.”
The question lingered on her tongue. Begging to be released. To be spoken.
She took a chance. “What’s stopping you?”
August stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.
“From what?”
Wren reached out her hand and molded it against his cheek.
“From taking what you want.”
He sighed and pulled her closer. She felt the hard planes of his chest, longing unfurling in her stomach.
“If I could only tell you…” He shook his head. “I don’t want this burden anymore.”
“Then tell me,” she pleaded, stepping closer. Her hips pressed against the inside of his thighs, the points of contact burning as if the two of them were on the brink of erupting into flames.
“It’s all coming undone,” he whispered.
“What is?”
His grip on her tightened.
My restraint.
Heat curled somewhere deep in her chest, a feeling of wanting so painful she could do nothing but let out a low huff of air and lean in closer. She knew that what they were doing was reckless, that every step closer was a self-inflicted wound, an act of defiance against her own better judgment, but she didn’t care.
Tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. And if this was their last night together…
The space between them sparked with heat, and then her hand was cupping the side of his face, her fingers brushing against his neck, and a feverish warmth spread through her. An unbearable need to hold him.
He tensed under her touch, but only momentarily, before relaxing into it, leaning in as if in a trance. He didn’t break eye contact, his gaze locked on hers, but she noted that his breaths grew increasingly labored as she began to draw small circles over his jawline with the tip of her thumb.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, August. You don’t have to keep it bottled up.” Her fingers traveled up toward the small scar etched into his cheekbone. “You’re not alone.”
His breath caught in his throat. “I am alone, Loughty.”
“Then what about me?”
“You,” August groaned out, neck tensing, “are my lifelong affliction.”
Wren’s hand froze against his cheek. “Affliction?”
“Does that offend you?”
“A bit.”
“It shouldn’t.” He shifted closer, bringing a hand up toward her, tentative at first, his fingers tracing the hem of her shirt. When she didn’t protest, he wound his fingers around her waist and tugged her toward him. “You are my affliction because it takes everything in me not to rip apart my principles and act upon my longing. I have an impulse to be with you all the time. To be physically near you.”
“Do you?” Wren breathed, her fingers snaking around his neck.
August inhaled deeply. He smiled, but there was pain behind it. Anguish. “It’s exasperating.”
“What is?”
“How often I think about you.”
She studied him, waiting for a flash of irony, but found nothing. Only his ashen eyes staring back at her, the rising and falling of his chest, the slight strain in his jaw as he waited for her to respond.
She whispered the next question into his mind.
Then why don’t you do something about it?
It was a challenge. A plea. She tightened her grip on his neck, and watched in satisfaction as a muscle in his jaw jumped. She brought her hand up higher, slowly, threading her fingers through his dark curls.
“You think I haven’t been tempted to?” His head tilted back against her touch, compliant. “That I haven’t dreamt about it? That I haven’t driven myself fucking mad with the torment of my own thoughts?”
His fingers squeezed tightly at her waist. All of her nerves stood on end, a crackling energy rolling through them. She could lose herself completely in it, if she gave in, if she allowed herself to.
“What’s stopping you now?”
“My conscience,” he whispered, a sardonic lilt to his voice.
“I wasn’t aware you had one.”
It was meant to be a joke, a teasing remark, but something about the way the words left her lips made the air in the room spark with palpable electricity. He clenched his jaw and pulled her even closer, destroying whatever space remained between them.