Ignite Me

“Up,” he says, gasping for air. “Lift your arms up.”

I do.

He tugs up my shirt. Pulls it over my head. Tosses it to the floor.

“Lie back,” he says to me, still breathing hard, guiding me onto the table as his hands slide down my spine, under my backside. He unbuttons my jeans. Unzips them. Says, “Lift your hips for me, love,” and hooks his fingers around the waist of my pants and my underwear at the same time. Tugs them down.

I gasp.

I’m lying on his table in nothing but my bra.

Then that’s gone, too.

His hands are moving up my legs and the insides of my thighs and his lips are making their way down my chest, and he’s undoing what little is left of my composure and every bit of my sanity and I’m aching, everywhere, tasting colors and sounds I didn’t even know existed. My head is pressed back against the table and my hands are gripping his shoulders and he’s hot, everywhere, gentle and somehow so urgent, and I’m trying not to scream and he’s already moving down my body, he’s already chosen where to kiss me. How to kiss me.

And he’s not going to stop.

he pulls back just to look me in the eye and his chest is heaving and he says, “I think,” he says, “my heart is going to explode,”

No gun, no sword, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. Swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh

Because my friendship,” he whispers, “comes with so many more benefits than Kenji could ever offer.”

I want him to know it the way only he can, the way he can sense the depth of emotion behind my movements. I want him to know and never doubt.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he says too quickly.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the little plastic jar.

“You should go back to sleep, love. You’re probably more tired than you think—”

I walk right up to him, reach around and grab the jar before he can do much to stop me.

“That is a violation of privacy,” he says sharply, sounding more like himself. “Give that back to me—”

“Medicine?” I ask, surprised. I turn the little jar around in my hands, reading the label. I look up at him. Finally understanding. “This is for scars.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Looks toward the wall. “Yes,” he says. “Now please give it back to me.”

“Do you need help?” I ask.

He stills. “What?”

“This is for your back, isn’t it?”

He runs a hand across his mouth, down his chin. “You won’t allow me to walk away from this with even an ounce of self-respect, will you?”

“I didn’t know you cared about your scars,” I say to him.

I take a step forward.

He takes a step back.

“I don’t.”

“Then why this?” I hold up the jar. “Where did you even get this from?”

“It’s nothing—it’s just—” He shakes his head. “Delalieu found it for me. It’s ridiculous,” he says. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Because you can’t reach your own back?”

He stares at me then. Sighs.

“Turn around,” I tell him.

“No.”

“You’re being weird about nothing. I’ve already seen your scars.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to see them again.”

I can’t help but smile a little.

“What?” he demands. “What’s so funny?”

“You just don’t seem like the kind of person who would be self-conscious about something like this.”

“I’m not.”

“Obviously.”

“Please,” he says, “just go back to bed.”

“I’m wide-awake.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Turn around,” I tell him again.

He narrows his eyes at me.

“Why are you even using this stuff?” I ask him for the second time. “You don’t need it. Don’t use it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

He’s quiet a moment. “You don’t think I need it?”

“Of course not. Why … ? Are you in pain? Do your scars hurt?”

“Sometimes,” he says quietly. “Not as much as they used to. I actually can’t feel much of anything on my back anymore.”

Something cold and sharp hits me in the stomach. “Really?”

He nods.

“Will you tell me where they came from?” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

He’s silent for so long I’m finally forced to look up.

His eyes are dead of emotion, his face set to neutral. He clears his throat. “They were my birthday presents,” he says. “Every year from the time I was five. Until I turned eighteen,” he says. “He didn’t come back for my nineteenth birthday.”

I’m frozen in horror.

“Right.” Warner looks into his hands. “So—”

“He cut you?” My voice is so hoarse.

“Whip.”

“Oh my God,” I gasp, covering my mouth. I have to look toward the wall to pull myself together. I blink several times, struggle to swallow back the pain and rage building inside of me. “I’m so sorry,” I choke out. “Aaron. I’m so sorry.”

make an effort to sound calm. “Please,” I say. “Don’t shoot him.”

“And why the hell not?” Ian demands, his grip tightening around his gun.

“Juliette, love,” Warner says, leaning into my ear. His voice is still loud enough for everyone to hear. “I do appreciate you defending me, but really, I’m quite able to handle the situation.”

“It’s eight against one,” I say to him, forgetting my fear in the temptation to roll my eyes. “They’ve all got guns pointed at your face. I’m pretty sure you need my interference.”

I hear him laugh behind me, just once, just before every gun in the room is yanked out of every hand and thrown up against the ceiling. I spin around in shock, catching a glimpse of the astonishment on every face behind me.

“Why do you always hesitate?” Warner asks, shaking his head as he glances around the room. “Shoot if you want to shoot. Don’t waste my time with theatrics.”

Twice.

Once for Adam.

Once for Warner.

know I am an extremely attractive man, J, but I am not Bruce Lee.”

“Who’s Bruce Lee?”

“Who’s Bruce Lee?” Kenji asks, horrified. “Oh my God. We can’t even be friends anymore.”

“Why? Was he a friend of yours?”

“You are my friend,” I tell him.

“But not your best friend. Kenji is your best friend.”

I try so hard not to laugh at the jealousy in his voice. “Yes, but you’re my favorite friend.”

Warner leans in, bypasses my lips. “Good,” he whispers, kissing my neck. “Now flip over,” he says. “On your stomach.”