And there was something both frustrating and maddeningly arousing about that. His restraint made something burn low and deep in her belly, and then his mouth, oh God his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon, again, and every now and then he’d pull away, just a little — just enough to make her want to drag him back. Before giving her a teasing lick with that perfect, curling tongue of his. It set all the nerve endings in her upper lip on fire.
His voice sounded like molten metal. As if he had something thick at the back of his throat and it was making him sound deeper and richer than he actually was.
Just that one word—sound—sent a strong answering pulse through her body. His tongue curled around syllables that weren’t there, like a promise. This is what you’ll get, if you just let me hear.
He suggested devils, skulls, harsh masculine drawings. This thing was…heart poundingly good. She wanted to pluck it, and bury her face in it, and keep it in a vase by her bedside.
I'm still doing it. I'm still doing the thing I never do. I'm hoping. Or at least I'm trying on hope for size.
Hope isn't poison, Lissa. Hope is the thing that keeps you going when everything is awful and dark and you don't know which way to turn.
