His hand is still cupping the back of my neck. It's as huge as ever, and just as warm.
All of him is just as warm, actually.
In the confines of this cramped, blacked-out elevator stuck halfway between heaven and hell, that heat feels like it's been cranked up to a blazing inferno.
I'm sweating and delirious as he drags me onto his lap. The hand that's not on my neck has found its way to my hip. The motion of our tangled limbs was just enough to pull my torn blouse out of its neat French tuck, so
there's a sliver of skin at my waist there for Andrew's free hand to caress.
His lips are softer than I would've guessed for a guy who only ever says rude things. I'd have thought a mouth like his would feel rough and jagged.
Maybe fanged, if I'm onto something with the vampire accusations.
But it's not. It's soft and velvety, and yet still solid, a contradiction that makes no sense but is true anyway.
