Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

don’t give a damn if it’s hard. I still want it. I still want you.”
    I’m trapped.
    I’m caught between him and the wall and I have nowhere to go and I wouldn’t want to go even if I could. I don’t want to have to fight this even though there’s something inside of me screaming that it’s wrong to be so selfish, to allow him to be with me if it’ll only end up hurting him. But he’s looking at me, looking at me like I’m killing him and I realize I’m hurting him more by trying to stay away.
    I’m shaking. Wanting him so desperately and knowing now, more than ever, that what I want will have to wait. And I hate that it has to be this way. I hate it so much I could scream.
    But maybe we can try.
    “Juliette.” Adam’s voice is hoarse, broken with feeling. His hands are at my waist, trembling just a little, waiting for my permission. “Please.”
    And I don’t protest.
    He’s breathing harder now, leaning into me, resting his forehead against my shoulder. He places his hands flat against the center of my stomach, only to inch them down my body, slowly, so slowly and I gasp.
    There’s an earthquake happening in my bones, tectonic plates shifting from panic to pleasure as his fingers take their time moving around my thighs, up my back, over my shoulders and down my arms. He hesitates at my wrists.
    This is where the fabric ends, where my skin begins.
    But he takes a breath.
    And he takes my hands.
    For a moment I’m paralyzed, searching his face for any sign of pain or danger but then we both exhale and I see him attempt a smile with new hope, a new optimism that maybe everything is going to work out.
    But then he blinks and his eyes change.
    His eyes are deeper now. Desperate. Hungry. He’s searching me like he’s trying to read the words etched inside of me and I can already feel the heat of his body, the power in his limbs, the strength in his chest and I don’t have time to stop him before he’s kissing me.
    His left hand is cupping the back of my head, his right tightening around my waist, pressing me hard against him and destroying every rational thought I’ve ever had. It’s deep. So strong. It’s an introduction to a side of him I’ve never known before and I’m gasping gasping gasping for air.
    It’s hot rain and humid days and broken thermostats. It’s screaming teakettles and raging steam engines and wanting to take your clothes off just to feel a breeze.
    It’s the kind of kiss that makes you realize oxygen is overrated.
    And I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know it’s probably stupid and irresponsible after everything we’ve just learned but someone would have to shoot me to make me want to stop.
    I’m pulling at his shirt, desperate for a raft or a life preserver or something, anything to anchor me to reality but he breaks away to catch his breath and rips off his shirt, tosses it to the floor, pulls me into his arms and we both fall onto my bed.
    Somehow I end up on top of him.
    He reaches up only to pull me down and he’s kissing me, my throat, my cheeks, and my hands are searching his body, exploring the lines, the planes, the muscle and he pulls back, his forehead is pressed against my own and his eyes are squeezed shut when he says, “How is it possible,” he says, “that I’m this close to you and it’s killing me that you’re still so far away?”
    And I remember I promised him, 2 weeks ago, that once he got better, once he’d healed, I would memorize every inch of his body with my lips.
    I figure now is probably a good time to fulfill that promise.
    I start at his mouth, move to his cheek, under his jawline, down his neck to his shoulders and his arms, which are wrapped around me. His hands are skimming my suit and he’s so hot, so tense from the effort to remain still but I can hear his heart beating hard, too fast against his chest.
    Against mine.
    I trace the white bird soaring across his skin, a tattoo of the one impossible thing I hope to see in my life. A bird. White with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head.
    It will fly.
    Birds don’t fly, is what the scientists say, but history says they used to. And one day I want to see it. I want to touch it. I want to watch it fly like it should, like it hasn’t been able to in my dreams.
    I dip down to kiss the yellow crown of its head, tattooed deep into Adam’s chest. I hear the spike in his breathing.
    “I love this tattoo,” I tell him, looking up to meet his eyes. “I haven’t