I didn’t know where we were. Who we were. We were on a street for a few minutes, I think. Against a statue in the middle of the sidewalk. Then pressed into a rough stone wall, my feet dangling a foot off the ground, my back clanging against the metal gate of a storefront, closed for the night.
And then things started to look familiar, but I didn’t care, and then up a driveway, and I think we went up some stairs, and doors and more doors, and then we very definitely opened the door to a bedroom.
I pulled away with a gasp. “Are we back at Colette’s?”
He nodded. His shirt was half untucked, hair everywhere. He must have been staying in a different wing than I was, and thankfully, no one else was around.
I looked inside the room. One soft bedside lamp. Books on the coffee table. Stellan—oh my God, seriously, really, Stellan, after everything? I flashed briefly to another set of lips on mine, a kiss that felt so different than this did, a clench in my chest just at the thought—but no, it was Stellan now, in the doorway, waiting. I almost expected the look on his face to be triumph, like it was when I’d asked him to teach me to fight. But there was no hint of smugness.
There was a normal amount of beautiful a person should be allowed to look, then there was him. Was it possible he was actually more attractive all flushed and wild like this, or had I made myself block him out so thoroughly, I’d just forgotten?
“Yes.” I took his hand. The door shut behind us. “Okay.”
The next time I opened my eyes, I was sitting on the windowsill, Stellan’s chest pressed between my knees. We’d been kissing for what had to be hours, but could have been minutes, and with a kiss like this, it was no surprise when I found myself, by some instinct rather than any particular decision, groping for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers felt clumsy, strange. The first button popped open. The second.
He pulled back, breathing hard, watching my hands undress him. His shirt fell off one shoulder, exposing the pattern of his translucent scars, beautiful, glowing in the low light.
A tiny knot of nerves blossomed in my stomach. I knew exactly where this was going if I didn’t stop. It wasn’t too late to button his shirt back up and keep this as the sweet kind of kiss. The kitten-bliss kind of kiss.
But did I want to?
Stellan’s hand closed on my leg, just at the hem of my skirt. He looked up at me, the same hesitation shining in his eyes.
I must have paused, because just as smoothly, with nothing more than a tender kiss at my jaw, his hand moved back to my waist, wrapped around my back. Safe.
And we were kissing again, just kissing.
The nervous butterflies in my stomach flapped, but he had misunderstood. That pause, the irregular pattering of my heart against my ribs—it wasn’t a bad kind of nervous.
I pulled back, just in inch. Just enough for him to take my face in his hands, for his eyes to wonder what I was doing.
I pulled the collar of his shirt through my fingers—then undid one more button.
Really? his eyes said.
His mouth didn’t have time to repeat it before mine was on it again. Telling him please, don’t think, don’t ask, don’t talk, for once, don’t make me agonize and decide and wonder whether I’m doing the right thing. Just do.
The kiss wasn’t quite so sweet after that. A while later, another of his buttons undone. Two. His shirt halfway off now.
I glanced toward the crisp white sheets on the bed across the room. So did he. I started to undo another button.
He stopped me, both our hands rising and falling with his uneven breaths.
“Avery, wait,” he said. The use of my real name was jarring, and my gaze snapped up. He gently brushed away a strand of my hair that had gotten caught in my mouth, tucking it behind my ear. “Have you ever . . . ?”
I’m sure he already knew the answer. I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, and kissed him again.
After a second, though, he stopped, lips in my hair. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I said, and punctuated it with another long kiss.
“Really sure?” he breathed.
“Really sure.” My fingers fumbled with his final button.
“Okay,” he sputtered against my mouth. “Wait. Stop. I can’t. You can’t.”
My eyes flew open. “What? Why?”
He sighed like it hurt him physically, and stepped out of my arms, cursing, colorfully, under his breath. “Kuklachka.” He perched on the arm of the couch, burying his face in his elbow. “You’ve had too much to drink. We both have. I just want to make sure—I don’t think we should—I don’t want to be something you regret.”
It hung over us like a wet blanket, and I shivered, despite the heat of my skin. “I won’t—”
“Just so you know, this is far more difficult than I’m making it look. Give me a second, okay?” He turned away from me, and I sat, staring. He was serious. And that was incredibly embarrassing.
My skin was hot all over, and then cold. My mind cleared all at once and the real world rushed back.
I jumped up and headed to the door.