Chapter 59 Crossing The Lines

Chapter 59 Crossing The Lines
Amelia

Jeremy's breathing from his room was deep and rhythmic. Not quite snoring but close.

I should go to my room. Let him sleep. Leave him alone.

But...

He'd had a lot to drink. What if he needed water? What if he got sick? What if he—

'You're making excuses,' a voice in my head whispered. You just want to check on him.

Maybe.

I moved down the hallway to my room. Changed into my sleep clothes—a simple cotton shirt and shorts. Splashed water on my face. Brushed my teeth.

Then I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling I couldn't see.

Jeremy was drunk. In his room. Down the hall.

What if he needed something?

He's fine. Luca said he just needs to sleep.

But what if he wasn't fine?

I lay there for twenty minutes, arguing with myself.

Then I got up.

I grabbed my cane. Navigated the twelve steps to Jeremy's door.

Knocked softly. "Jeremy? Are you awake?"

No response.

I knocked again, a little louder. "Jeremy?"

Still nothing.

I should leave. It's time to return to my room. I should...but

I opened the door.

"Jeremy?" I called into the darkness. "I just wanted to check if you need water or anything else."

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Moved carefully toward the bed.

The room smelt like him. The scent of cologne, whisky, and something deeper reminded me of Jeremy.

I could hear his breathing. Slow and heavy. He was asleep.

Good. He was fine. He didn't need anything. I could leave now.

Except I was already at the bed. Already reaching out to—what? Touch his shoulder? Make sure he was okay?

My hand found fabric. No—not fabric. Skin.

His skin was warm with smooth muscle.

He was really mostly naked. Just the boxers Luca had mentioned.

I pulled my hand back quickly—

Strong fingers wrapped around my wrist.

"Amelia?" Jeremy's voice sounded rough and sleep-thick. He was still impaired by the alcohol.

"I was just—I wanted to make sure you were okay. That you didn't need water or.."

"Stay."

The word was simple. Direct. The word was vulnerable in a way that Jeremy had never been before, even when sober.

"Jeremy, you're drunk. You should sleep—"

He pulled. He pulled gently but firmly. He drew me closer to the bed. Toward him.

"Jeremy"

"Just—stay. Please."

I should say no. I should withdraw from him. Should leave him to sleep this off.

But his hand on my wrist was warm. His voice was soft. And the "please" undid something in my chest.

"Okay," I whispered. "I'll stay for a minute."

I sat on the edge of the bed. His hand moved from my wrist to my arm. His hand glided up to my shoulder, then my neck.

Cupping my face.

"Amelia," he breathed. "You're so"

"I'm so what?" I asked eagerly.

"Beautiful, Strong, and stubborn. You drive me crazy."

My breath caught. "Jeremy, you don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying." His thumb stroked my cheek. "Been wanting to say it. Can't. But now" He laughed, soft and bitter. "Liquid courage, right?"

"You should sleep—"

My heart hammered. "Jeremy—"

He pulled me closer. He pulled me close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. I could smell the whisky and feel the heat radiating from him.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered. "Tell me you don't want this."

I should. I should absolutely tell him to stop. He was drunk. This was a mistake. Tomorrow he'd regret it and I'd—

But I couldn't.

Because I did want this. I had yearned for it for weeks. Had been lying to myself about what these feelings were.

"I—" My voice shook. "I can't tell you that."

"Good."

And then his lips were on mine.

Soft at first. Questioning. He seemed to be giving me a chance to distance myself.

But I didn't pull away.

I leaned in. I returned the kiss.

And something broke open between us.

His hand slid into my hair. His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. Onto the bed, and against him.

I should stop this. Should remember he was drunk. Should remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea.

However, his mouth felt warm, demanding, and right against mine. His hands on me felt like they'd been waiting to be there. His body against mine felt like coming home.

I kissed him back. Fully. Deeply. He poured weeks of confusion, longing, and unnamed feelings into it.

His tongue traced my lower lip. I gasped—and he deepened the kiss.

I'd been kissed before. I'd experienced fleeting kisses and awkward teenage attempts before.

It wasn't something like this...

This was consuming. All-encompassing. The kind of kiss that made you forget where you ended and the other person began.

Jeremy's hand moved from my hair down my back. His hand slid under the hem of my sleep shirt. Warm palm against bare skin.

I arched to the touch. Made a sound—half gasp, half moan.

He groaned in response. Rolled us—I was on my back now, Jeremy above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress.

"Amelia," he breathed against my mouth. "Amelia—"

His lips moved to my jaw. My neck. He found sensitive spots on my neck, which caused me to shiver.

His hand on my waist tightened. Possessive and claiming.

This was happening. This was really happening.

Jeremy Santoro—dangerous, complicated, beautiful Jeremy—was kissing me. Touching me. He was evoking emotions in me that I had never experienced before.

And I was letting him.

More than letting him. I wanted him.

His mouth found mine again. This time, his kiss was more profound. Hungrier. His hand slid higher under my shirt—

And I didn't stop him.

JEREMY

Everything was fuzzy. Warm. Perfect.

Amelia was here. In my bed. She returned my kisses. Touching me.

I'd wanted this for so long. Weeks of watching her, protecting her, wanting her, and not allowing myself to have her.

But now—

Now she was here. And she was kissing me like she'd been wanting it too.

Her hands were on my chest. She was tentative at first. She then became bolder and more explorative.

I groaned against her mouth.

"Jeremy," she whispered. "We should—we should stop. You're drunk. Tomorrow you'll—"

"Don't care about tomorrow." I kissed her again. Hard. Desperate. "Want you now. Always want you. Want—"

I was saying too much. I was revealing too much. But I couldn't stop.

The whisky had loosened everything I'd been holding back.

And Amelia—God, Amelia was so soft and warm and perfect against me.

My hand slid higher. Found the curve of her—

"Jeremy." Her hand caught mine. Stopped me. "Wait."

"Don't want to wait." I kissed her neck. "Wanted you for so long—"

"I know. I know. But—" She was breathing hard. "You're drunk. We can't—not like this."

"Yes, like this. Exactly like this."

"No." She pushed gently at my chest. "Jeremy, please. I want—I want you. But not when you're drunk. Not when you might regret it tomorrow."

Regret it?

I would never regret this.

I will always cherish her memory.

But her words were penetrating the haze. The fog of whisky and wanting.

She was right.

I was drunk.

She was in my bed.

We were—

Cristo.

What was I doing?

I pulled back. I rolled off her. I lay on my back, breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have —"

"Don't." Her hand found my chest. Stayed there. "Don't apologise. I kissed you back. I wanted it. I just—I want you sober. I want you sober when you have a clear understanding of your actions. When you can mean it."

"I mean it now."

"You're drunk."

"Doesn't make it less true." I covered her hand with mine. "Amelia, I—"

What? What was I going to say?

That I'd fallen for her? That she was all I thought about? That the idea of her with Alexei Volkov made me want to burn the world down?

I didn't understand what she meant to me, but I knew I couldn't let her go.

"You should sleep," she said softly. "Tomorrow—tomorrow we can talk. We can discuss this when you're sober. When you remember this."

"I'll remember," I said. "Every second. Every touch. Every—" I turned my head toward her. "You'll stay?"

"I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Her hand stayed on my chest. Warm. Grounding.

I closed my eyes.

The room was spinning. My head was pounding. But Amelia was here, in my bed. Touching me. Having kissed me like—

Like she felt it too.

Whatever this was.

"Amelia?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't—" I struggled to find the words. "Don't regret this. Tomorrow. Don't—"

"I won't." Her thumb stroked my chest. Gentle. Soothing. "Sleep, Jeremy. I'll be here."

I wanted to say more. I wanted to pull her back. Wanted to—

But the whisky and exhaustion were pulling me under.

My last thought before sleep claimed me was:

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd tell her. Tomorrow I'd figure out how to say what I'd been too scared to admit.