Page 241 of Immune

Her hands reach out and fist in my shirt, and I work very hard not to react in any way other than to tell her, “You can say no.”

Her eyes open. “If you ruin this by being weird and noble, I’ll actually scream.”

“I’m not noble.”

“You absolutely have the bone structure of someone annoyingly noble.”

“I’ll do my best to get past it,” I assure her, and a small sound scrapes out of her. It’s almost a laugh, but I can’t fully appreciate it because the next moment her mouth is on mine.

It’s not gentle, because Dakota doesn’t kiss like she’s asking permission from the world to want something. She kisses like she’s finally taking back the territory she thought was taken from her.

I let her set the pace for roughly three heartbeats. Then four. And then five. Her fingers twist in my shirt and her mouth opens under mine, hot and demanding. The first taste of her sends a wave of hunger through me, bringing her scent with it.

Wild honey.

Rain.

Grief and daggers.

Softness with a knife hidden in one boot.

I want her. The wanting is so immediate and deep that it’s dangerous, so I slow down. I don't stop, and I don’t pull away, I simply slow down. I kiss her like time still exists. Like there isn’t an emergency in wanting her, no cliff edge daring us to fall over, and no debt that is owed to pain.

One of my hands remains at her jaw, cupping gently, and the other slides to her waist before stopping there. Dakota makes an impatient sound before pulling away enough to mutter against my mouth, “I said touch me.”

“I am touching you,” I point out.

“More.”

“Where?”

She exhales against my mouth, slightly furious and very shaken. Then she takes my hand and drags it under the hem of her shirt. Her skin pulses under my palm, and so does mine, because there’s no armor here. There’s no bandana, no smoke, and no dirt. It’s just Dakota, warm and breathing, letting me touch her in places where survival hasn’t turned her to steel.

I kiss her again, slower this time, and her fingers crawl into my hair. Mine spread over her ribs, cautious of bruises, old injuries, and fresh pain. When my thumbs brush the underside of her breast, she bites my lower lip hard enough to make the message clear.

Don’t treat me like porcelain.

I completely understand it and I don’t waste another second. I lift her onto the edge of the closest workbench, and she makes a surprised sound into my mouth before wrapping one leg around my hip like she’s decided to pay me back for being useful.

The hat sits on the planter bed behind her and I notice it instantly. She notices me noticing and, for a second, Maine is in the room with us. Not his body, obviously, but his absence. His return. The painfully fresh bruise of him that makes Dakota’s expression change.

I stop and she glares. “Don’t.”

“I’m not stopping because you’re sad,” I assure her softly.

“Then why?”

“Because I won’t be that person who uses your sadness to get closer to you,” I explain with enough honesty that her eyes search mine for a long moment.

I see the anger in them. The terror. The want.

Then she says, “You’re already close.”

“I am.”

“Closer, then.”

I drop my forehead to hers gently, then breathe, “Say it in a way that you own.”