Chapter 25
You and Me Are Wild Magic
Paisley
Vetiver.
That’s the first thing that crosses my mind when his lips meet mine. Knox smells of vetiver, and, God, I love this smell. So much so that I dig my hands into his hair and pull him closer. My heart is pounding. I am sure that Knox can hear every single beat.
As he delicately runs his fingers down my throat he makes a rough sound, like a lion’s purr. I shudder. The center of my body begins to tingle and then contracts. I have never wanted anyone this bad.
I feel dazed. Absent. Intoxicated. His lips are soft and electrifying.
Silk and storms.
The sounds of the music and the crackling of the fire are nothing but background now. Transparent. Not here and not there, as Knox’s caresses are taking me in completely. A powerful line I am clinging to as he holds me.
My fingers stroke his scalp. I can feel his fine hair tickling my skin.
I can’t get enough, I can’t get enough, I can’t get enough.
Knox can feel how badly I want him, I am sure of it; he keeps making that noise, you can barely hear it, barely catch it, it’s almost a whisper, but so intense that something inside me explodes.
God, I’m so hot, he’s so hot, and it’s got nothing to do with the fire and our warm bodies. I am dizzy and suddenly I wonder if this is all okay. But it has to be, it simply has to be, because the thought of stopping everything causes a black hole to appear within me.
“Paisley…” Knox whispers in between two caresses, and the way he says it makes it sound like something saintly.
Like something delicate he is holding in his hands, carefully and thoughtfully, so that it won’t break.
I have never felt the sound of my name like this before.
I never knew you could feel your name, but now I know you can.
It’s rare, I know that much immediately, I feel that much immediately, and when that feeling comes, for a moment there is nothing more beautiful.
I briefly hold my breath, enjoy the soft tingling beneath my skin—who knows when I’ll feel this again? If I’ll ever feel it again?
Knox’s hands burn my cheeks and yet I want him to leave them there forever.
The way he’s kissing me, as if he needed it, as if he was thirsty, the way he’s turning me on, his breath quick and flat between every touch of our lips, it’s like he’s dying of hunger.
As if he had to take everything he could from this moment out of the fear of never being able to experience it ever again.
I know this because it’s the same for me. The exact same. The idea that this moment and this kiss on the scuffed, sinking couch—the most valuable couch in the world for me right now—could be it, the only one, is unacceptable.
And that makes me terribly afraid. I shouldn’t want this. Knox isn’t someone I’ve known for a long time. That I know well. I don’t even know what I think about him. Whether I feel anything for him. And if I do, well, then that’s even worse, because, as I said, I don’t even know him.
His fingers wander up and down my shoulders, my arms, before making their way to my waist and digging in.
A bit too powerfully, just a bit, but it tells me that he’s holding back so as not to go too far.
Here and now, on this wonderful couch, although he wants to.
I know he wants to. I catch myself imagining what would happen if I let it.
When I was the one letting him know with my jittery fingers that I wanted more, more, more.
Our kisses are heated, too uncoordinated, too quick to be perfect, though it’s perfect anyway, the two of us, he and I, me and him, alone at this moment.
I run my fingers through his hair and wander deeper, touching his neck, as he continues to hold me, and I try not to think about how the moment’s growing more intense. I run a finger across his face as he bends over me, his forehead against mine.
It would be thrilling. Mesmerizing and hot, captivating and fraught with tension, every movement, every breath, every touch. And I’d want it. Absolutely. Absolutely.
And this is the thought that suddenly causes me to choke up, because I notice how much my self-control is crumbling.
That’s the problem. It shouldn’t be crumbling.
Never. I am here to leave my past behind me and to concentrate on my career.
If I open myself up to a snowboarder who is known for having a different woman in his bed every night, things in Aspen won’t be off to a good start. Not the one I want.
All of a sudden everything has changed. Instead of joy I’m panicking. I feel constrained, as if I might suffocate in too small a space, one where the walls are closing in and my heart with its jumps is telling me something’s not right.
Before Knox can kiss me again, I turn my head and stretch my palms out until they touch his chest.
His lips graze the corners of my mouth, then he moves away from me so quickly, it’s like I was poison ivy. For a little while, we just look at each other. A moment ago you couldn’t have fit a leaf between us, now the sudden distance seems like the edge of a cliff.
It’s impossible to overcome. Impossible to ignore.
I look at Knox. Analyze him carefully. Not because I really want to, but because I have no other choice.
Knox is hot. In a way you don’t think is even possible.
Now and then, you see pictures of these kinds of people on Pinterest or Instagram, and you pause for a second, two, three, four, five.
You wonder why you never run into these kinds of people in real life until you realize that everything—everything—has been manipulated.
From their perfect brows to their full lips down to their symmetrical features.
Having realized that, you usually feel better. It’s just Photoshop. It’s not real.
Well, false. Here’s the proof, right in front of me, close enough to touch and yet so far.
Red lips, chapped from our heavy kisses.
Big green eyes. More than green, with that bright spot in the irises.
No idea how it’s even possible. Maybe it’s an anomaly.
I resolve to think about anomalies from now on.
If I added a -philia to it, it’d even become a technical term.
Anomalyaphilia. It probably exists already.
And then of course—how couldn’t it be—there’s that perfect birthmark right under his left eye.
It’s only a birthmark, but at the same time it’s the ne plus ultra.
I can’t get enough of it. Whenever I think of Knox, that little brown spot is the first thing I see.
It’s nuts. I mean, it’s a spot, really, I’ve observed it a few times already, but my head keeps insisting on its being something beautiful.
Birthmarkaphilia.
My hand breaches the distance between us and slowly moves across it; it’s just too beautiful for this world.
Okay, not really, but that’s what I imagine. My nerves are electrified because they want my thoughts to become reality. I think Knox can see what I’m thinking. His lips open, and I hear him release a trembling breath.
“I could be,” he murmurs.
Could be what? What’s he talking about? I should ask him, that would be the logical thing to do, but I can’t manage to make a sound. I try, really, but something’s blocking me. Every time I try to raise my voice, nothing comes out, and I feel like my attempts make me look like I am somehow gagging.
“I could be,” he repeats.
“Could be what?” Finally.
“Ready.”
What on earth is he talking about? No idea, but his birthmark is blinding me, even if, in reality, it can’t, but I’ve already established that there’s something weird about that thing.
I look at my hands, they’re far too dry, and begin to massage them.
Then I scratch the scar on my thumbnail, wondering whether I am getting enough vitamins, doing anything to avoid thinking about what Knox could be ready for.
I don’t want to know because I’m dying to know, and that makes sense, actually.
It means that I am already too invested.
I can’t deny it. It doesn’t matter how much I try to fight it.
It doesn’t matter how much I concentrate on other things, the voice in my head is too present.
Too loud. It’s yelling that I want him. God, yes, I want Knox Winterbottom, and if he doesn’t tell me what he’s ready for, I’ll die.
I’d love to yell at him. But while he was caressing me, my mind made it clear that I simply can’t.
I ran away from something in order to start over and not to swan dive into the next catastrophe.
It took all my willpower to stop things from continuing, and now Knox is talking weird shit and making it impossible for me to break away.
He’s cast a spell over me, again, and has given the electrifying tension between us space to persist. But it’s got to give. It simply has to.
I’m too curious. I have no other choice. “Ready for what?”
“To change for you.” He runs his tongue across his lips. “No more parties. No more women. If you want.”
If I want. All it takes is three words to turn everything upside down again. Knox is a mistake in my plan. An unexpected valley on my hike. Far too beautiful to ignore. Far too beautiful not to see.
But I can’t. I simply can’t. I’ve been here before.
It was just as beautiful. With bright lights that dragged me in only to show me that, inside, all was swamp instead of brooks, darkness instead of light.
It didn’t want to let me leave. It wanted to destroy me.
To pull me down until I couldn’t breathe and suffocated from the pain. And yet, it had looked so pure.
But beauty deceives. If you aren’t careful, it’ll take you behind the light to show you its real face.
And it’s a horrific one. I saw it. For far too long and far too frequently to allow myself to risk opening up again to something that is all too beautiful, too beautiful, too beautiful.