Ignite Me

“Up,” he says, gasping for air. “Lift your arms up.”

I do.

He tugs up my shirt. Pulls it over my head. Tosses it to the floor.

“Lie back,” he says to me, still breathing hard, guiding me onto the table as his hands slide down my spine, under my backside. He unbuttons my jeans. Unzips them. Says, “Lift your hips for me, love,” and hooks his fingers around the waist of my pants and my underwear at the same time. Tugs them down.

I gasp.

I’m lying on his table in nothing but my bra.

Then that’s gone, too.

His hands are moving up my legs and the insides of my thighs and his lips are making their way down my chest, and he’s undoing what little is left of my composure and every bit of my sanity and I’m aching, everywhere, tasting colors and sounds I didn’t even know existed. My head is pressed back against the table and my hands are gripping his shoulders and he’s hot, everywhere, gentle and somehow so urgent, and I’m trying not to scream and he’s already moving down my body, he’s already chosen where to kiss me. How to kiss me.

And he’s not going to stop.

he pulls back just to look me in the eye and his chest is heaving and he says, “I think,” he says, “my heart is going to explode,”

No gun, no sword, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. Swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh

Because my friendship,” he whispers, “comes with so many more benefits than Kenji could ever offer.”

I want him to know it the way only he can, the way he can sense the depth of emotion behind my movements. I want him to know and never doubt.

“Maybe we can fight them?”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? You think we can take on two hundred soldiers? I know I am an extremely attractive man, J, but I am not Bruce Lee.”

“Who’s Bruce Lee?”

“Who’s Bruce Lee?” Kenji asks, horrified. “Oh my God. We can’t even be friends anymore.”

“Why? Was he a friend of yours?”

“You know what,” he says, “just stop. Just—I can’t even talk to you right now.”

My heart stops for a second.

Kenji kisses James good-bye. It’s an obnoxious, noisy kiss, right on top of his head. “Watch my back, okay?” he says to James. “If anyone comes in here, I want you to kick the shit out of them.”

“Okay,” James says. He’s laughing to pretend he’s not crying.

“I’m serious,” Kenji says. “Just start whaling on them. Like just go batshit.” He makes a weird fighting motion with his hands. “Get super crazy,” he says. “Beat the crazy with crazy—”

“No one is going to come in here, James,” I say, shooting a sharp look at Kenji. “You won’t have to worry about defending yourself. You’re going to be perfectly safe. And then we’ll come back.”

“Really?” he asks, turning his eyes on me. “All of you?”

Smart kid.

“Yes,” I lie. “All of us are going to come back.”

“Okay,” he whispers. He bites down on his trembling lip. “Good luck.”

“No tears necessary,” Kenji says to him, wrapping him up in a ferocious hug. “We’ll be back soon.”

James nods.

Kenji breaks away.

And right now, we’re ready to go. We’re suited up, armed, and highly caffeinated.

“You wouldn’t mind, then?” Warner asks.

I’m still confused.

“If he and I,” Warner says, “spent some time together?”

“What?” I ask, unable to hide my disbelief. “No,” I say quickly. “No, of course not—I think that would be amazing.”

Warner’s eyes are on the wall.

“So . . . you want to spend time with him?” I’m trying so hard to give Warner space, and I don’t want to pry, but I just can’t help myself.

“I would like to know my own brother, yes.”

“And James?” I ask.

Warner laughs a little. “Yes. And James.”

“So you’re . . . happy about this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “I am not unhappy.”

I startle, surprised. “You mean . . . you don’t hate him anymore?”

Warner drops his head. His voice is so low I can hardly hear it. “How can I hate his anger,” he says, “when I know so well where it comes from?”

I’m staring at him. Stunned.

“I can well imagine the extent of his relationship with my father,” Warner says, shaking his head. “And that he has managed to survive it at all, and with more humanity than I did?” A pause. “No,” he says. “I cannot hate him. And I would be lying if I said I didn’t admire him.”

I think I might cry.

The minutes pass between us, silent and still, stopping only to hear us breathe.

“Come on,” I finally whisper, reaching for his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”