His hands trailed down from my waist, easing my panties over my hips. The thin cloth hit the floor seconds before he picked me up and tossed me onto the bed.

I had a single moment to think as I heard his zipper go down and the soft brush of denim against skin as his jeans followed suit.

In that moment, everything threatened to cave in. Without Marc there to reinforce them, my defensive wal s were crumbling, succumbing to the pressure of outrage and fear.

But then his face appeared over mine, and his weight dropped onto me, heavy, and warm, and so very real. He propped himself on his elbows and I stared up into his eyes. Yellow specks sparkled in the deep brown of his irises, glistening through a layer of unshed tears.

“I’m scared,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around him.

“Me, too.”

I felt how hard his heart beat and knew it was the truth.

He moved against me, then inside me.

I exhaled, letting go of more anguish than I’d known I held. I closed my eyes, and my own tears spil ed over, running down my cheeks to dampen my hair and his sheets.

Then he said my name, and suddenly there was no room for pain, no room for fear. Marc took up al the room there was, in my head, in my heart, and inside me.

He fil ed me, not just with himself, but with memories of what we’d been, of what I’d given up.

My fingers skimmed the lines of his arms, up over his shoulders, then down his back. When I got to his hips, I added pressure, urging him on as I rose to meet him.

Marc matched my pace, apparently eager to spend his pent-up energy without breaking anything. He couldn’t hurt me. Even better, considering my recent delve into al things human and fragile, I couldn’t hurt him.

When I final y remembered to breathe again, our combined scents overwhelmed me. I was suffocating on the very aroma of hunger and need—an exhilarating blend of his, mine, and ours—and I never wanted another breath of fresh air. The smell of sex itself was almost enough to bring me, screaming, to the edge.

Already panting, I put a hand on Marc’s chest, begging him with my eyes to wait. I wasn’t ready. Not yet. I needed much, much more.

He smiled, a trace of satisfaction glinting in his stil -damp eyes. He altered our rhythm, watching my face as he slowed, moving deeper with each stroke. Marc remembered what I liked even better than I did.

Each time our bodies met, sparks tingled through me, racing across my nerve endings in violent jolts of pleasure bordering on pain. My fingers curled at his hips.

My nails sliced through his skin.

Hissing, he arched his back, but his smile never faltered.

The sharp tang of blood fil ed my nostrils, adding one final layer to the bouquet of scents forming the foundation of my lust. I held him tight, smearing wet streaks across his spine. I arced into him, desperate for one more touch, one last powerful thrust that would bring us both peace, however temporary.

Marc knew what I needed. He tangled one hand in my hair and pulled my head back, opening my mouth. He thrust into me, hard. His lips covered mine, swal owing my scream of release and claiming it for himself.

He pounded against me over and over, fighting for control. My nails carved fresh gouges into his shoulders, and that was all he could take. He shuddered against me, moaning into my mouth. And final y he collapsed on top of me, his cheek against mine, his lips brushing my ear.

“I love you, Faythe,” he whispered, stil inside me. And then, so quiet I could barely hear him, he said, “Don’t leave me.”

Eighteen

Holding my breath, I tried for the third time to roll out of Marc’s grasp without waking him. No luck. Every time I moved, his breathing quickened and his eyelids fluttered, as if he’d wake up any moment. Even asleep, he’d tried to make sure I couldn’t get away; he had one leg draped over mine and one arm around my waist.

I groaned, and clamped one hand over my mouth as Marc shifted in his sleep.

His leg slipped off me, but the weight of his arm across my middle was still very real. Biting my lip in concentration, I took Marc’s wrist gently between my thumb and forefinger. I lifted his arm off my stomach, barely stifling a sigh of relief as the pressure on my bladder eased. When his next breath came, deep and relaxed, I lowered his arm to the bed between us as he exhaled. Finally free, I made myself wait through two more torturously slow breaths before easing silently off the mattress and onto the floor.

The moment my feet hit the ground, my eyes flew to the clock. Green segmented numbers stared at me in the dark: 4:34 a.m. That was weird. The color, not the time. My alarm clock numbers were red, which always made me feel anxious and hurried, like I was late for something every time I woke up. The green numbers were calm and soothing, assuring me that I stil had a couple of hours left until dawn, yet I tottered on the thin, sharp edge of panic.

According to the clock, I’d gotten maybe three and a half hours of sleep after Marc and I collapsed onto his pil ows, mercifully too exhausted to think. But now, standing naked in the middle of his bedroom, I could do nothing else.

Now look what you’ve done, Faythe, I thought, staring down at Marc’s sleep-relaxed face. You’re not going to be happy until you’ve screwed up not only your life but everyone else’s too.

But that wasn’t quite true. I wouldn’t be happy then, either.

I needed to think. And I needed to pee. My bladder was quite insistent on that last part and had, in fact, woken me up to take care of business. But since I wouldn’t be coming back after my trip to the bathroom—to gain any kind of perspective, I needed to distance myself from the problem—I’d have to get dressed.