Collared(80)

His eyes lower to my mouth, and when he sees the speed of my breath, one corner of his mouth twitches. His other hand slides up my leg and slips just beneath his old shirt. His fingers curl into the skin of my hipbone, then his face moves closer to mine. I stop breathing when his mouth moves toward mine. Before he kisses me, his fingers slide up my neck until two of them press into the space below my jaw.

My pulse beats against the pads of his fingers, and my breath gets away from me again.

When he kisses me, I don’t know what to do at first. It’s been ten years since I kissed Torrin Costigan, but with the way he’s kissing me now, holding me so tight between him and the door that I can’t fall apart, it makes a decade going without seem worth it.

It’s the first kiss of a decade. The kiss of the decade. Maybe the kiss of my life.

It doesn’t take him long to melt my lips, and as I start to kiss him back—my hands winding around his neck to pull him closer—I feel something inside me melting. I’m not sure what it is, but I think it might be resolve.

He tastes like I remember. He feels like I remember. He sounds like I remember. He still makes that low groan in his chest when I tie my fingers into his hair. His hands still dig in deeper when I trace my tongue down his. He’s familiar . . . and he’s different.

I don’t remember the strength he possesses now. The way I feel safe and protected and like nothing could get to me when he’s close. I don’t remember the scrape of his stubble being so sharp against my cheek. I don’t remember the rough growl that vibrates against me when I run my fingers down his chest.

I do remember some of this, and I don’t recall the rest. After tonight, I know I’ll remember it all.

My fingers find the hem of his Henley and tug it up his body. He steps back just enough to let me finish pulling it off, then his mouth is on me again with an urgency that’s new. He hasn’t kissed me in ten years. It’s the kind of urgency of trying to make up for that time.

When I put my hands on his bare chest, I roam his shoulders first, then I take my exploration down the peaks of his chest and end on the planes of his stomach. My fingers skim along the waist of his jeans, slowing where his zipper is. Another rumble vibrates against me. When he fits his hips a little tighter against mine, his fingers still on my pulse curl in a little deeper. I feel his smile even as we kiss.

As he pulls back again, his hands work my shirt up my body. Slowly. Like he’s giving me the chance to stop if I need to. I look at him and lift my arms above my head.

His old shirt flutters in front of my face, and I feel a cool rush of air break across my bare skin, but it only lasts a moment. Before the shirt hits the floor, Torrin’s body is pressing into mine again. His warm body against mine, his chest hard against mine . . . I think I’ve found whatever kind of healing I need if I can just stay like this forever. If we could stay like this, I’d be fine.

But I know we can’t—this moment is fleeting—so I kiss him again.

When he lifts me up and curls my legs around him, he stares at me. His lips are parted from his breath, and his eyes are alive. I see something hanging from his neck I hadn’t noticed at first. Seeing the man wearing the ring I gave the boy ten years ago makes my chest ache.

“You still have it.” I let the gold chain slide through my fingers before I reach the ring resting against his chest. Time hasn’t tarnished it like it tends to do. Age hasn’t worn at the intricate grooves of the design. Wear hasn’t rendered it useless.

It looks the same as it did the night I gave it to him.

His hand curls around the ring and my hand as he carries me into the bedroom. “It’s staying on my neck or going around your finger.”





I NEVER KNEW broken could feel so whole.

That’s the first thing I think as I feel myself starting to wake up. Part of it is the anesthetic of sleep talking, but part of it is me. The shattered me.

Torrin’s arm is caged around me, and his body is tucked beside mine, curled around me from head to toe. His leg is tucked through mine, and his slow breath fogs the side of my neck. I can faintly make out his heart beating against my back, and I can make out other parts pressed up against me below his chest.

I want to fall back asleep and freeze this moment. I don’t want to finish waking up. I want to stay in this world between asleep and awake and feel whole for the rest of my life. But I can’t. I know the moment, like the intact feeling, is ephemeral.

It will pass. It has to. But that doesn’t keep me from enjoying it while it’s happening.

He shifts in his sleep, somehow managing to roll closer. Now I can feel his zipper running against my spine.

We’re still clothed. Mostly. Restraint was something both of us seemed to have a tankful of last night when it came to crossing that final threshold. Torrin knew I wasn’t ready . . . and I knew that while he was definitely ready, it wasn’t the right time. Not yet. My head might have been swimming with the things his body was doing to mine but not so much it drowned out the acknowledgement of what he was.

When he carried me into my room last night, before lowering me onto my bed, he’d stopped. I thought he’d just reminded himself of what he was and given himself a mental cold shower, but he kissed my forehead and whispered something in my ear.

You’re not falling into bed with a priest. You’re climbing into it with me.