Chapter 7: Breathless
His breath was warm against her lips, tasting of whiskey and that metallic hint of blood. The world had narrowed to the pressure of his mouth, the rough callus of his thumb on her cheek, the damp cloth forgotten between them. Her cut finger throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
Hardin’s hands moved from her face, sliding down her arms, leaving a trail of sparks. They settled on her waist, his grip firm yet unsure. She felt the subtle tremor in his fingers through the fabric of her shirt. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, breathing ragged. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his skin.
In one fluid, desperate motion, he grabbed her waist and laid her back gently on the rumpled sheets. The mattress swallowed her, surrounded by the scent of him—old paper, clean sweat, and that lingering smoke. His hands were trembling visibly now as he pulled back just enough to look down at her. His gaze was a storm she wanted to drown in.
He broke the kiss for a second, sitting back on his heels. His fingers went to the hem of his own black shirt. He peeled it off in one swift, strained movement, the cotton dragging over his head before he tossed it carelessly to the floor. The single desk lamp cast a harsh, angled light across his torso, illuminating the landscape of ink and taut muscle. The ship on his shoulder seemed to list on the curve of bone. The dead tree sprawled across his ribs and stomach, its branches stark and reaching. The three birds on his forearm looked poised for flight.
He didn’t give her time to process the map of his pain. He came down to her again, bracing himself on one arm, and kissed her. This time it was deeper, hungrier, a silent confession. Tessa’s hands came up, her palms framing the sharp lines of his jaw, her thumbs brushing the prominent bruise on his cheekbone. She felt him shudder at her touch.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot and uneven against her skin. One of his hands came up, his fingers gentle as they traced the line of her jaw before settling at the side of her neck. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin just below her ear. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the frantic pulse there.
He kissed her neck for a while. Not a quick peck, but a slow, open-mouthed exploration that sent jolts of pure lightning down her spine. He traced the cord of her tendon, nipped lightly at the hollow of her throat, his breath a warm flood against her collarbone. His other hand splayed across her ribcage, anchoring her.
Her breath hitched, caught in her chest. A small, involuntary sound escaped her. She felt his smile against her skin, a faint curve of lips before he continued his devastating path.
Her hands slid from his face, down the tight cords of his shoulders.
Not stopping. His hand at her ribs crept higher, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her bra.
She arched into his touch, her fingers threading into the messy, styled brown hair at the nape of his neck. He made a low, approving sound and finally lifted his head to look at her. In the stark lamplight, his ocean-blue eyes were completely clear, all storms momentarily stilled. There was a vulnerability there that was more terrifying than any of his anger.
“Tessa,” he said, just her name. It was a question, a plea, and a statement all at once.
She answered by pulling his mouth back to hers. This kiss was different. It was a surrender, a pact. His weight settled over her, a solid, warm pressure that felt like the only real thing in the universe. There was only this room, this light, this boy kissing her like she was the only source of oxygen in a room filling with water.
His hand left her neck, skating down her side to the hem of her shirt. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, tracing the skin of her stomach.
A shiver, sharp and electric, raced across her nerves. His mouth left her neck, his lips trailing a burning path down her sternum.
He caught the hem of her shirt with his teeth, a gesture so unexpectedly playful her breath caught. He tugged it upward just an inch, his gaze locked on hers, before releasing it to kiss the newly exposed skin. His lips were soft, deliberate, against the flat plane below her navel.
He did it again, gathering more of the fabric in his hand this time, lifting it higher. The cool air of the room brushed her skin, raising goosebumps. His mouth followed, a warm, wet contrast just above her hip bone.
When his fingers hooked under the hem a third time, aiming to reveal the soft curve of her waist, her own hand flew down on instinct. Her fingers closed over his, trying to still them, to pull the shirt back down. A wave of heat flooded her cheeks.
He stopped immediately. He looked up, his eyes searching hers in the lamplight. His expression wasn’t one of frustration, but of a deep, unsettling understanding. "Hey," he whispered, his voice gravel-rough. "You don't ever have to cover up." He paused, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "Not for me."
The simple words disarmed her. They held no poetry, no grand declaration, just a stark permission to be exactly as she was. The tension in her fingers eased. She let her hand slide away from his, letting it fall back to the rumpled sheet beside her head.
She closed her eyes, shutting out everything but the feeling. A soft sigh escaped her as his hand resumed its journey, lifting her shirt fully now. The cool air washed over her torso, followed an instant later by the warmth of his mouth. He kissed her stomach again, a slow, open-mouthed press over her diaphragm where her heart hammered against her ribs.
Her head tilted back into the pillow, tendons standing out in her neck. Her breathing grew heavier, each inhale a shuddering thing that lifted her chest toward him.
His hands were on her hips, holding her steady as his kisses wandered. One of his hands slid up her side, his palm searing a path to the clasp of her bra.
"Hardin," she breathed, less a stop and more a confirmation.
He understood. The clasp gave way with a quiet click. He didn't pull the garment away, not yet. He just lowered his head, his mouth finding her through the lace, and her back arched off the bed. A broken sound, half-gasp, half-moan, tore from her throat.
"Look at me," he said, his voice strained. She forced her eyes open, meeting his blazing blue gaze.
And she did. She saw the raw hunger, yes, but beneath it, a reverence that made her feel utterly weightless. He was committing this moment, every flaw and curve of her, to memory. It was more intimate than any touch.
His hands finally, slowly, drew the lace away. The air was a shock, then his mouth was not, and her thoughts dissolved into pure sensation. Her fingers twisted in his hair, not guiding, just anchoring herself to the earth. The world was this room, this light, this devastating boy who had somehow become the only thing that made her feel completely, terrifyingly alive.
His mouth was a brand, his hands a revelation, mapping her as if she were a territory he needed to memorize in the dark. She was dissolving under his attention, becoming a raw collection of nerve endings and sound.
Then his lips left her, tracing a slow, deliberate path back down her body.
He made his way down to her stomach again, pressing a kiss to it once more, right over the trembling muscle. Her hands found his shoulders for a second, her fingers digging into the skin. He sat up, kneeling between her legs.
His eyes never left hers as his fingers went to the button of her jeans. The snick of it popping open was loud in the breathless quiet. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, denim and lace, and pulled them down slowly. The drag of fabric against her skin was excruciating. He eased them over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees, letting them fall to a heap on the floor beside his discarded shirt.
He didn’t rush. He looked at her, all of her, and the heat in his gaze was almost too much to bear. She fought the instinct to cover herself. Instead, she watched him watch her, her chest rising and falling like she’d been running.
He bent, his head moving to between her thighs. He didn’t do anything else for a long moment, just exhaled, warm and shaky, against the most sensitive skin. Then he pressed a kiss there, just a soft, closed-mouth press that sent a jolt straight to her core. Her head tilted back into the pillow, her mouth agape, breathing heavy. Her hands fisted in the sheets.
He kissed her again, a little lower, a little less chaste. A strangled gasp escaped her. Her hips lifted off the mattress of their own volition. He made a soft, soothing sound against her, his hands sliding under her to hold her steady. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her skin.
Then he showed her exactly what he meant.
When he came up to kiss her again, she could taste herself on his mouth. It was intimate, grounding, real. Her hand moved up to his chest, her palm flat over his skin she could feel it pounding, a wild, frantic rhythm that matched her own.
He looked down at her hand, at her small fingers splayed over his skin as if she were trying to still the storm inside him. He covered her hand with his own, pressing it harder against his ribs.
It was the same violent beat she’d felt thrumming through the woods clearing, through the shattered glass, now laid bare under her touch. He shifted above her, his body aligning with hers, and she felt the hard evidence of his want press against her thigh. A jolt of pure, undiluted anticipation shot through her, warm and liquid.
She arched into him, a silent answer. His eyes held hers, a blue so dark it was nearly black in the lamplight.
He kissed her once more, a soft brush of lips Then he rolled over, laying beside her, his body leaving a damp, warm space on the sheets. Her leg came up to rest on his hip, her hand splayed on the skin of his torso, right over the frantic, slowing beat of his heart.
His hand went to her hip, thumb stroking the bone there. They looked at each other, the storm in his eyes now a quiet, azure calm. A smile touched his lips, small and real and utterly exhausted. She found herself smiling back, a soft, disbelieving curve of her own mouth.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, tugging her closer until her head nestled into the hollow of his throat. Their heads melted into the pillow, a tangle of damp hair and shared breath. In the quiet dark, surrounded by the scent of him they fell asleep.