(Etienne's Point Of View)
She didn't answer. She buried her face in my chest, clinging as if I were the only solid thing left in her world.
I held her—one hand threaded in the dark of her hair, the other braced around her waist, feeling the tremor of her ribs under my palm.
We stayed like that for a long, patient minute. Her breaths, ragged at first, smoothed into a quieter cadence while her face stayed pressed to the fabric of my shirt, warm and damp.
"Isobel," I whispered.
She looked up. Her eyes glistened, cheeks still flushed; her lips were parted, hesitant and vulnerable.
I couldn't help it. I kissed her again.
This time the kiss was different—slower, deeper, less frantic and more like an answer. She returned it at once, her mouth opening beneath mine, small hands tangling in my hair.
I walked her backward until her legs met the couch. She sat; I followed, kneeling between her thighs, the couch cushion sighing beneath us.
"Tell me to stop," I murmured against her lips.
