One Shots Of Shatter Me

deleted scene from defy me

I touch him, try to wrap my arms around him, but he’s too fast. He catches both my wrists with one hand, locking them against the brick above my head. He leans in, pressing me harder against the wall. He’s planted me in place, his thigh hard between my legs. He uses the gun in his right hand to tilt up my chin.

And then his face is close, so close his lips graze my cheek and my breath catches in my throat and he says, “Tell me two things.”

I swallow, hard. Stare at him.

“Are you okay?” His gaze travels over my face, my long hair, this wisp of a yellow dress.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He exhales, slowly, some measure of tension leaving his body.

“What’s the second thing?” I ask.

“What are you doing?” He looks me in the eye, then, his own eyes full of unconcealed hurt. “I knew you were mad at me, love, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill me.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, and sighs. “This is very confusing.”

“This was the only way I could see you.”

“By coming to kill me?” He almost smiles. He drops my wrists and instead wraps his free hand around my waist, pulling me close. And then, a whisper against my ear: “This might be my favorite way to die.”

“Aaron, I just need to kiss you,” I whisper. “Is that okay? I’ll explain later.”

He doesn’t give me an answer.

I don’t even have a chance to process the deep, intense look in his eyes before he’s kissing me, pressing me back against the small window and parting my lips with a heated desperation that nearly brings me to my knees.

Suddenly I can’t think.

I always underestimate my ability to stay coherent when he’s touching me like this, and I have to force my mind to steady, to swim back to the surface, but it’s hard, because he’s hard, hot, heavy weight against my body, pinning me in place and I know I could lose myself here, in his arms, for hours.

I break free with a broken sound and he’s kissing my neck, my chin, the length of my collarbone, and I say his name, breathlessly, and he doesn’t seem to notice. “Aaron,” I try again, but he slips his hand behind my neck and tilts up my face to kiss the line of my jaw and he’s fighting to breath when he says, “You don’t have to explain anything,” and he yanks on the sleeve of my dress, puling back the soft fabric to expose my shoulder and then his mouth is on my skin again, hot, so hot and

I lean into the curve of his body and gasp, enjoying his warmth, breathing in the scent of his skin. I never feel more safe or loved or protected than I do in these moments, in his arms. And when he pulls me tighter I feel suddenly reckless. I slip my hands under his shirt to better appreciate the feel of him, and he tenses when I touch him, his body going hard under my hands. But his response only makes me wish we had more privacy, I want to lose myself in him, in us, in this love. I miss him, desperately. But Warner breaks away. He pulls back, suddenly, to look at me, and the look in his eyes takes my breath away.

Too soon, he averts his gaze.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Out here”–he trails his fingers along my jaw–”and in here,” he says, pressing his hand against my chest.

We’re so close, heat soldering our bodies together. Feeling moves fast and fluid through my veins. But he still won’t look at me.

“Aaron,” I whisper.

“I think I tell you, all the time,” he says quietly, “what you do to my heart, I think you know how much I love you, how I’ve always loved you.” He tilts his head up, his nose grazing the sensitive skin at the base of my jaw, his hands moving up my throat, tilting my head back to give him greater access to my neck, and a sudden, traitorous shiver of feeling runs through my body.

Warner’s smile deepens. He makes no effort to hide his pleasure at my response to him, and instead of giving me a chance to recover, he spreads his hands along my collarbone and when I gasp he says–

“But I don’t think I spend enough time telling you how much I love your body.” He breathes the words against my skin, kissing my neck, gently at first, and then with a slow, heavy pressure that destroys what’s left of my concentration. “Because I really, really love your body.”

I clutch his shoulders as he runs his hands up my back and then, slowly, he pulls my face down to meet his.

Still, he doesn’t kiss me.

His smile dissolved, evolved into something else. His eyes are deeper. hungrier. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he says. I feel his heat, the beating in his chest, the hard pressure of his body, hot and steady, the tension in his jaw betraying the calm expression on his face. His hands move up, around my face when he says, “You have no idea what I’m thinking when I look at you. You don’t know where I go in my mind or what it does to me to feel you, soft and vulnerable under my body. You don’t know what I feel when I touch you.”

I’m shaking slightly in his arms, falling apart under his careful, tender touch, and I have no idea what to say.

How to respond.

I whisper his name as if it were a plea, silently begging him to stop talking and kiss me, to ease the ache of wanting him. A hard breath escapes his lips, his muscles tensing under my hands. His arms feel solid, like stone, his back stiff. There are no secrets  between use when we’re this close. I can feel how badly he wants this, wants me.

Wants more.

“Am I dreaming?” he says softly. “They’ve been drugging me all month and honestly, I’m not sure I know what’s real anymore.” He presses his face into my neck, breathes me in. “If this is a dream, it’s exquisite.”

“It’s not a dream.”

“Not a dream,” he says, his eyelashes tickling my skin. “And yet, you say you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“Aaron,” I whisper. “Do you remember me?”