I don’t take my eyes off the silhouette of Waylon’s face as I slide my hands up, up, up, until they’re firmly circling his waist. My thumbs brush the soft skin just above his waistline where the shirt has ridden up, and I hate that I can barely see his reaction. I hate that my vision still twists from the alcohol when I try too hard to focus or move too fast.

I want to experience this in the light of day, but I know I’ll only ever have the shroud of this night to remember. I know I’ll only ever have whiskey to blame for our choices.

And yet, it’s not enough to stop me.

“Tell me, Waylon,” I whisper. Another flash of lightning, and I see his eyes drop to my mouth. Please, Way. Tell me, because if you don’t, I’ll be damning the both of us. Tell me, because I don’t have the strength to do what needs to be done.

His fingers flex, digging into my chest. I can feel the rounded edges of his nails through the cotton and I hope he leaves marks. I want something to remember this night, because I can’t be sure this isn’t just some whiskey-induced dreamscape. I can’t be sure I’ll ever have anything of his again.

In one quick maneuver, I curl up into a sitting position bringing us together at about chin level, giving him no choice but to slide his hands up to my shoulders.

With my nose a breath away from his lips now, I tilt my head back, baring my neck to him so I can meet the black, sparkling orbs glaring down at me. His hold on me tightens, becoming almost painful. “Stop me, Waylon.”

His nose flares with the next burst of bright lightning. This time, it lingers, rolling over him like smooth waves of light. His collar bone juts out prominently over his collar with each inhale, just begging for my tongue. My teeth.

I slide my arm around him, fist the back of his shirt, and arch up into him so we’re chest to chest. Pounding heart to pounding heart. “Stop me,” I tell him gravelly, bitterly, desperately, “because I fucking can’t.”

His eyes flash molten-hot at my confession, and just when I think he might actually shove me the fuck off him—and I’d let him, I would, even if it killed me—he lets out an animalistic growl from deep within his chest. His fingers grab onto the back of my head, yanking me back by the hair. Through his teeth, right against my parted, panting mouth, he snarls, “I hate you.”

I smile a sad, breathy smile against his bared teeth. “Show me.”