I lean toward him until my lips graze his ear. His closeness races up my spine. He smells rain-wet and fresh, with a hint of something like berries, and for such a hard man, his skin looks ridiculously soft—like the vulnerable, inner curve of a petal. Like the silk of his hair. He’s holding his breath. “I think,” I whisper, “that something about you makes me 65% less violent, and that’s well worth exploring.” He laughs, but the sound is shaky. Affected. Good.
