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Lily has lived a life of modulating her own fear in circumstances where feeling it would be the most natural thing in the world, but she’s not afraid now, though perhaps she ought to be. The sensation in the pit of her stomach is unique: the ice-cold plunge, the hot-rush desire. Feels like a fever coming on.
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She’s never trusted men who deal in too many compliments, because it’s usually cushion for the blow, ice for the bruise. But she winds her arms around his neck all the same, lets him lift her with ease and bring her to the bed, where it goes how it goes, though he is different from other men. Feels different; less give, more strength, tireless, and the cries he wrings from her are honest, her heart going too fast and breathing too thin