Carti Cu Colti

Any pretense of control or reason either of us possessed melted away. The walls crumbled, and everything weʹd
been holding back from each other came rushing out. I reached up, pulling us together for a kiss—a kiss he didnʹt let go this time. A
kiss I didnʹt end by punching him. His arms encircled me as he lifted me onto the bed, one hand soon sliding along my hip and down to
my leg, already half-bare, thanks to that poor tattered dress.
Every nerve in my body lit up, and I felt that desire returned in him—and then some. After a world of death, he seemed to appreciate
love more. Not only that, he needed it. He needed life. He needed me—not just physically, but in the same way my heart and soul
always cried out for him. What we did then, as our clothes came off and we brought our bodies together became more than just lust
—even though there was plenty of that too.
Being with him after so long, after everything weʹd endured … it was like coming home. Like finally being where—with whom—I
belonged. My world, my heart … theyʹd shattered when I lost him. But as he looked at me, as his lips spoke my name and ran along
my skin … I knew those pieces could come back together. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that waiting for this—for my second
time having sex—had been the right thing to do. Anyone else, any other time … it would have been wrong.

                                                 -   Last Sacrifice, Richelle Mead