"Do you love me?"
"I do."
"Enough to keep me alive?"
"Of course, puppy. I will never hurt you!"
"At least be honest."
"I am. I expected you to ask about your condition or what is going to happen."
"I will."
I tapped my lips again.
Emiliano chuckled—dry, low—and leaned in, pressing his mouth to mine.
Not a kiss.
Just a press.
Firm.
Deep.
Our lips brushed, parted slightly, teeth nearly touching.
The pressure built.
I squirmed beneath it, pulse racing, half raging, half maddeningly turned on.
His hand cupped my face, steady, warm, holding me still. I hated how calm he was.
How deliberate.
Sneaky b-stard. I said a peck, not whatever this was.
My jaw locked.
My chest tightened.
The longer he held the peck, the hotter my skin burned, the sharper the ache in my side grew.
My stitches pulled—first gently, then with warning.
The tension from my own body made them strain.
