Page 38 of Vandal Unbound
He grabs my chin between his thumb and finger. “The problem isn’t you looking. It’s how I feel when you do.”
The air between us saturates with something a lot like tension. His gaze drops to my mouth. Mine drops to his. And there’s this awful, beautiful moment where I know we’re both thinking the exact same thing.
It’s bad timing, and this is a bad idea. Between the two of us, there’s too much baggage, damage, and complication.
But then Vandal quietly says, “Tell me to stop."
Do it.
I know I should, but instead, I whisper, “Maybe just this once.”
Something breaks across his face then, not amusement or victory. It’s perhaps something a touch sadder than that. It’s as if he knows what we’re up against but needs to know what he’d be missing when we go our separate ways today.
The approach isn’t rushed. It’s not desperate, filthy, and consuming. It’s slow and careful.
His hand slides up my neck, a rough palm against warm skin, and I melt before I can stop myself. His mouth is softer than I expected, and mine parts instinctively as his breath catches against my skin.
We kiss deep and slowly, as if answering a question as opposed to demanding something. And somehow that makes this infinitely worse. Because I feel all of it.
I feel the loneliness.
The grief.
The desperate wanting.
And the paralyzing fear.
His tongue brushes gently against mine, searching and seeking for answers I’m incapable of providing. But I fall into how it feels, which is impossible to explain. How do you put words to the feeling like your soul just met its match?
His hand moves to my neck, holding me firmly, his thumb stroking along my jaw, and I swear I shiver.
Isn’t this how I’ve always wanted to be held? To feel like I’m cherished while being defiled.
And when he finally pulls back, neither of us moves far.
My forehead rests against his, our breathing unsteady.
Outside, the water laps softly against the dock as life goes on like the world didn’t just tilt sideways.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” But he moves his hand to my hip, his grip tightening, crumpling my T-shirt instead of letting go.
I close my eyes. “I don't know what this means, Vandal. I don't even know your real name.”
“It’s Gideon Boon. And it doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to.”
The words should make me relieved, but instead they make my chest hurt because I know what he’s really saying.
He expects me to regret this, and he’s giving me an exit before I even ask for one.
I pull back enough to look at him properly. “It’s weird,” I say quietly. “Don’t you think?”
His brow furrows slightly. “What is?”
“The timing of this.”
A muscle shifts in his jaw, but he nods once.
