Selene
His kiss was deeper now, restrained, like he was holding back a storm behind clenched teeth. I felt it in the tightening of his fingers at my waist and the tremor in his breath against my mouth.
He wanted me.
But he was still choosing control.
That made it worse.
And better.
My fingers slid from his chest to his midsection, feeling the tension coiled beneath my touch. "You can touch me," I whispered.
His eyes opened. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, low and firm.
"I won't."
He frowned slightly. "I mean it, Selene. If you want to stop, you tell me."
I nodded, distracted by the shape of his mouth, and those lips that seemed to be created for both sin and salvation. He lifted his head, studying me. "You're shaking," he murmured.
"So are you." I retorted softly.
Something shifted in his eyes. The restraint didn't vanish; it hardened.
"Put your hands on me," I whispered.
