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sâmbătă, 13 septembrie 2014

The Evolution of Mara Dyer - Deleted Scene

Fragmentul a fost șters, din cauza faptului că nu se putea integra corect în poveste. În plus, Michelle Hodkin a mai spus că este prea R-rated pentru actuala audiență a cărții. Îmi pare rău, că nu a fost adăugat, ne-ai fi arătat o altă față a celor doi. Dorința arzătoare a lui Noah și incapacitatea lui Mara de a-și controla mai bine "darurile". 

His hands were stone on either side of my rib cage. I felt them rise and fall against my skin with each breath I took. I waited and wondered as Noah decided what to do.

I could feel how much he wanted me, and I liked it. 

I took away his choice. 

I turned myself over. His hands were still on my ribs, light and soft but solidly there. When I turned, my shirt fell slightly over them, and Noah instinctively moved his hands lower,  down to my waist.

I wanted to lift them. Noah moved over me, slid his knee between mine, and I thought I would burst into flame. His arm slipped beneath my back and his mouth moved over my neck, his lips brushing the hollow beneath my ear. I arched back, slipped my hand into Noah’s hair, and fought the impulse to pull him against me. 

"Kiss me," I whispered. My heartbeat was out of control. I was out of control. I was dangerous, like fire, and I burned for him.

Noah’s lips moved across my jaw. His arms braced on either side of me, like a cage. He moved slowly, so slowly. I almost felt the air part for him as his mouth made its descent into mine.

"Not yet," he said against my lips. His voice was low. Husky. Completely self-possessed and it drove me wild. I wanted to devour him. 

He lowered his head to the curve of my shoulder. His lips brushed my neck. He kissed the hollow under my ear. My eyes closed. I ached for him.

"Now?" I asked. 

"No." He moved around me like water around stones, his touch smooth as cream and just as delicious. His lips lingered at my jaw, at my throat, my collarbone, down.

"Now?" I whispered.

"No," he whispered back. 

His hand moved up my spine, turning me to liquid. 

"Now?" I begged.

"You’re not ready," he whispered into my hair, as his hands traveled down. 

"I am ready."

He stilled.

"I am ready," I said again. 

He did not move.

I rolled and straddled him. I was over him now. I felt his ribs move under my hands, his waist between my legs. His arms fell to his sides. I leaned over him, breathing hard and feeling reckless. I placed my hands on his chest. Lower. The ridges of muscle and sinew hard beneath my palms. Noah watched me and if I didn’t know him as well as I did, I wouldn’t have known that there was anything unusual about this. But I did know him, and there was something different about the way he watched me now.

His control was slipping. 

I leaned forward, my hands moving lower down his stomach, my back arched above him. I kissed his throat. I heard a sharp intake of breath. 

And slipping. 

I smiled against his skin, moved my lips along his jaw, which was softer than usual but still rougher than the skin of his neck. My hands moved lower, to the waist of his jeans, my body bent, tight as a bowstring over his, my lips millimeters from his mouth. I undid the first button.

"Fuck," he murmured against my lips. The feel, the word, sent a hot little shock through my spine. It skittered through my veins, danced through every nerve ending. He placed his hands lightly over mine. Stilled them. 

"Not yet," he whispered.

"Why?" My finger grazed the skin above his waistband. I watched his lids drop at my touch. 

"You know why."

I did know why. I thought he wouldn’t notice. [ ?]

I thought wrong.

I stared at his perfect mouth, velvet soft beneath my own. His eyes were dark with need. He was waiting. Waiting for me.

I was ready.

I lowered my mouth to his. Brushed his lips with mine.

A sudden flash of him beneath me, stone still and illuminated by lightning in his bedroom back home. He wasn’t moving. 

He wasn’t living.

I drew back as though I’d been burned. A tear rolled down my cheek. It was joined by another. And another.

I felt Noah’s arms around me, his heartbeat against my spine.

"Don’t cry," he whispered next to my ear.

I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to scream. To hit something. To tear things to pieces.

"I didn’t want this," Noah said in a low voice.

"What is wrong with me?" I said, my voice laced with loathing. "I can’t believe I can’t kiss you. 

"Nothing," he said, his voice louder now. “There’s nothing wrong with you. This should take time. That’s how it’s supposed to work. We shouldn’t have tried to rush it."

"It isn’t rushing. I’ve known you for months and I’ve wanted to kiss you every second of every hour of every day of every week. I hate that I can’t."

"You will."


"When you’re ready," he said simply. 

I closed my eyes and Noah shifted me down, curled me onto his lap. I was exhausted and frustrated but my mind was on overdrive. 

"I wish I could stop thinking," I whispered. 

Noah said nothing, but I felt his fingers light against the small of my back. They wrapped around the hem of my shirt. 

"May I?"

I nodded. 

He lifted it and began to trace patterns on my back again. I closed my eyes, tried to empty my mind of thought. My muscles were tight and my head ached, but after a while, I began to feel hazy and warm. Sweet and strange.

"Where are your hands," I whispered, almost to myself. 

Noah responded by pressing them more firmly around my waist, beneath my ribs. “Don’t you feel them there?”

And somewhere else. 

"What are you doing to me?" I whispered. 

"Experimenting," he said, a smile in his voice. "Do you want me to stop?"

God no. I shook my head.

The warmth layered in on itself, tumbled and spun and weakened my limbs as it tightened my stomach. My breath quickened. 

"Are you doing…what I think you’re doing?"

"That depends on what you think I’m doing."

"You know."

"But how would you know?"

"You think boys are the only ones who—"

Noah’s hand covered my mouth. His other hand drew me up. “Do not finish that sentence or we will never leave this room.” He dropped his hand.

I opened my mouth to speak but he said, “Please. His voice was strained, almost a whisper. 

"Maybe that’s exactly what I want you to do."

Instead of acknowledging this, he asked, “What did you feel?”

My cheeks grew hot. I opened my mouth to speak. Then closed it again. Noah narrowed his eyes, studying me as I struggled, vainly, to find words that wouldn’t embarrass me. No dice. 

"No," he said, disbelieving. Then, with a sly smile, "Really?"

I shrugged then. “How were you doing it?”

He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I imagined the blood rushing to the surface of your skin. I imagined soaking you in feeling, making you breathless. I imagined what it would take to empty your mind of thoughts. Did it work?”

"Yes," I whispered.

"Did you like it?"


"Shall I do it again?"

I leaned over his knees in answer. I closed my eyes. At first I felt a softness at the edges of my skin. Then felt like I might dissolve. I felt sweet and slow like warm honey. I lost myself in it. 

It was only when I woke to find myself drowsing against Noah’s shoulder that I realized I’d fallen asleep. 

"Shhh," he said, and smoothed my hair. 

"I don’t want to miss anything," I said, my voice husky.

"You aren’t," he said, lifting me in his arms. "I need to sleep, too."

I didn’t have the strength to protest and it wouldn’t have been fair if I had. We were running on empty,  and Noah needed to rest, too. 

I let him carry me out of my room. Into the hallway. Into my bed. Phoebe was silent. 

He laid me down on the mattress and kissed my temple. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised. 

But if I had known what would happen then, I would never have let him go. 

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