“I’m sorry,” I whisper as my thumb sweeps over his cheek in a way meant to be comforting but is probably weird. “Stop apologizing,” Nick murmurs, his breath washing over my hand as I swipe his bloody lip clean. I must press too hard, though, because he jolts slightly, his quiet groan echoed by my hushed gasp when his hands suddenly grip the backs of my thighs, his long fingers hot against my skin. It only lasts a split second—like it was a gut reaction or a reflex or something—but the impression feels branding.
