Maeve stared up at him. She should be afraid or repulsed by his obsession with keeping her. Instead, she found it oddly reassuring. In her messed-up brain, she knew she could count on him being there for her.
They stared at each other and the silence was so intense she could hear their breathing. His long and measured, hers almost panting.
He kissed her, a brief, almost-touching of his lips to hers, before he lifted his head. He stared down at her, as if waiting for a reaction.
Maeve touched her lips, still feeling that brief pressure. His lips appeared stern and she'd thought they would feel like stone against hers.
The first time he'd kissed her their soft texture had amazed and pleased her. Made her want more of his kisses. She parted her lips and reached up to pull him down to her for another kiss. She could die happy as long as she had his lips against her, his taste on her tongue.