The Fall

by Tal Bauer

“Torey...” His voice is raw silk, barely there. His chest rises against mine, that scent of coconut and lime and salt threading through my head. “Tell me what you need.” “You.” My thumbs smooth over the inside of his wrists. I angle up to kiss him again, lips and breath, a question and an answer. He answers all the way, opening, letting me taste him, letting me lead. Heat curls under my skin. I breathe into him and he breathes back. He swears under his breath, barely a word, and I feel it within our kiss. His fingers flex at my hips, and then those hands slide up, under my shirt, warm palms on bare skin. Mine thread into the soft strands of his hair. “Blair...” He lowers his head to my neck and breathes me in, laying open-mouthed kisses on me as slow as a prayer. His next words are low enough only I could ever hear them: “I don’t know how not to fall for you.” His confession sinks past bone and into the very center of me. “Fall,” I choke out. “I’ll catch you.” He stills completely. The roaming of his hands halts. Every muscle in his body goes taut. For a long second, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifts his head. “I think you already have.”