Walk the Edge

There’s an ache within me—a curling of warmth in my stomach. It’s like an indescribable, beautiful need, a desire even, and it’s calling for Razor to touch me, to ravish me, to bring me to this glorious high only he has brought me to before.

His fingers gently pull on my hair, creating pleasing tingles that zap to my toes, and my hands find his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, I explore his muscles, but this isn’t enough. I crave the warmth of his skin, and for there to be absolutely nothing between us.

As I reach the hem of his shirt, my wrist bumps his cut and my eyes snap open. I draw in a breath and Razor is looking down at me with the deepest blue eyes.

“You can take it off,” he says, and the thought of doing so terrifies me and causes a spark of joy. He doesn’t allow anyone to handle his cut, and when someone does touch it, they’re careful to avoid his patches.

I reach under the leather, up to his strong shoulders, and keeping my hands safely inside the cut, I slowly edge it off his arms. It’s like a countdown. The moment this is off, everything will become discarded. My shirt and his. His jeans and possibly mine. We’ll be tangled and touching and everything I need this moment to be.

I lick my bottom lip and heat rushes through me as Razor’s eyes track the movement. That provocative feral glint appears in his eyes again. It’s like we’re becoming victims of pure, unadulterated instinct.

My fingertips graze along his arms, over his biceps, along the inside of his wrist, and with each second that passes, my heart rate increases. Faster and faster and faster.

His cut skims over his hands, and when he grips it, my heart stutters with the switch in pace. Razor takes over. Easing his cut off, he folds it, then reverently places it on his dresser.

Razor circles an arm around me, and a smile bursts from me when he lifts me off the floor and carries me to his bed. He’s gentle as he lays me down. My head settles into the huge pillow and my body is cradled by the blanket beneath me.

Razor yanks his shirt over his head to reveal all his beauty and he kneels. One knee against my outer thigh. The other tucked between my legs. His fingers pace the inner seam of my jeans—the area above my knee. A heightened sense of awareness causes my cells to awaken.

He leans down, situates his hands on either side of me, but hovers his body wickedly away from mine. “I’m in love with you. This isn’t a memory, but a promise, do you hear me?”

I hear him and his words cause a pain in my chest. One of my hands slides along his spine and another touches his cheek. His jaw is smooth and his blond hair falls so that it almost covers his eyes. I’m in love with him and I’ll take whatever I can get from Razor—his love, his memory, a promise. “I love you, too.”

He drops his head and kisses my neck. It’s a long kiss, an enduring one. It causes goose bumps along my arms and my blood to hum. His hands are magic, creating a tingling sensation wherever they roam. Down my arms, along my sides, up again as he tugs at my shirt.

His lips meet mine and we’re both leaning up, my hands over my head. We briefly separate as the material is eased off my body and tossed to the floor. My back arches as he begins this slow, seductive trail of kisses.

Soon, there’s no material between our chests and he touches and kisses and nips and his hands move lower. My body and Razor’s rock in the same rhythm that’s being synchronized by our pulses. I suck in an audible breath that partly describes the intense pleasure.

Razor moans and the sound drives me close to the brink of insanity.

His body glides against mine as he drags himself toward me for more kisses. These are on fire and intense and it’s like we can’t satisfy this building hunger.

The world spins, several times, and I’m touching and he’s touching and we’re kissing and there’s whispers. Lots of whispers of love and of God and there’s this warmth. Oh, this warmth. It’s hot and it’s consuming and it’s spreading and then my muscles tense and an explosion.

Colors and sounds and a rush and then I’m gasping for air.

Lots of air. Razor’s breathing hard beside me, cradling my head, kissing my lips, my cheeks, and whispering that this was right, and he utters those magical words again. “I love you.”

RAZOR

CLOSE TO NAKED and tangled with me in my bed, Breanna’s head is on my chest and she tells me everything. From Kyle, to her parents, to her siblings’ reaction and the bad news I had hoped was wrong—that Breanna is being sent to private school—that she’s being sent away from me. I’m not Chevy and I don’t have any more tricks up my sleeve. Her parents are packing her up and Kyle still holds all the cards.

As she talks, I stare at the ceiling, graze my fingers up and down her bare back and search for a solution, but I keep circling back to the same place—with a solution she won’t easily accept.

Breanna falls silent, and I give her a few seconds in case she remembers something else or I can create some brilliant plan. Neither happens.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks.

I fist her long raven hair and kiss her forehead. “Anything.”

Breanna lightly brushes her fingernails over my chest and her apprehension is palpable.

“Tell me,” I say.

“The night I met you, going to that private school was my dream. I would have given anything for my parents to say yes.”

I swallow the fear nagging at me. “And now?”

She lifts her head and the pain in her eyes is her answer. “I don’t want to go, not like this. Not because of this. Not because I’m in love with you and they won’t give you a chance.”