The hunger was a constant, low-frequency hum in my blood. Every time I looked at him, every time I caught the scent of his skin or heard the rhythmic cadence of him practicing in the conservatory, I wanted to drag him back to that bed and lose myself in him again.
But I couldn't.
Every time he touched me, I felt the phantom weight of the secret I was keeping. It was like a physical barrier, a wall of cold glass between his skin and mine.
I was standing by the window of our bedroom, watching the moon reflect off the black Atlantic, when I felt his arms slide around my waist. Leo pressed his chest against my back, his face tucked between my shoulder blades.
"Ash," he whispered, his breath warm through my shirt.
He started kissing the back of my neck, his hands traveling down to the buck
