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boot and starts to massage the red marks in my skin, his touch amplifying the giddy sense of intoxication that makes me sway where I sit. I want to touch him so much I begin to visualise it. My hand stroking the side of his face, the feel of his jaw, the strong lines of the side of his neck, the thick rope of muscle over his shoulder, the smooth slope of skin beneath his shirt, the ridges of his scarred back and the angel in ink. The tingling would travel in waves up my arm and through my chest and make me greedy for more.
    It’s a moment or two before I realise he’s stopped moving, that he’s frozen with the stocking in one hand and my foot in his other and that he’s staring at my toes. “How are you doing that?”
    I blush and bite my lips. “Sorry.”
    “It’s not Kinetic Memory Transfer because it’s not a memory. What is it?”
    My shoulders move up around my ears. “What I want.”
    His lips part and the crease deepens in his brow. “You’ll faint.”
    “I don’t think I will.”
    He hangs his head and exhales. “You’re drunk.”
    “I’m fine.”
    He looks up. “You just fell over.”
    I force myself to hold his gaze. It’s as hard as looking at the sun. “Then lie down with me.”
    He chews his lip and scans my face, an internal war behind his eyes that keeps him motionless and silent so long I grow afraid to do or say anything that might bring him to a conclusion. “If you were sober–”
    “If I were sober, I would definitely pass out. What if this is the only way I can override it?”
    “In time your body will adjust.”
    “We don’t have time. They could come for me any day now, you know that. What if this is the only chance we have to … to be together?”
    He moves onto his knees and leans his forehead against mine. “Everton, you’re killing me.”
    “Don’t you want me?” My throat tightens. “Don’t you want this?” I ignore the slip of my tears and press my mouth to his, drawing his kisses slowly to the surface, salting his lips. “Don’t you want me, Jamie?”
    “You need me to convince you?” He cups my face and then multiple images slam into me, a sensory payload, as he gives me access to a storehouse of memory as wide as a temple where my body lies enshrined and catalogued. It overwhelms me, sensation, emotion, hunger and need, confronting and intimate, the knowledge of how he sees me, the way I move, the sound of my voice, how I feel to his touch, the fragrance and taste of my skin and what all of this does to him. How can I doubt it?
    The KMT lifts. I whimper and grip his shirt front to keep myself from falling. I can’t speak. He laughs softly, wrapping his arms around me. I lean heavily on his shoulder, my face pressed against his neck and mumble, “Okay. I believe you. I believe you. You want me … almost as much as I want you.”
    His body rocks with laughter and he strokes my back. “I can’t agree to that until your suffering matches mine, love.”
    “What do you call this, then?” I lift my trembling hand.
    “Barely a notch on the Richter scale.”
    “Then put us both out of our misery and make love to me, damn it.”
    He growls and moves, lifting me in his arms as he gets to his feet, easy and effortless. “You are blind drunk,” he separates the words. “Whether that would allow us to do it is not the point. The point is that I will not take advantage of you.”
    I
growl. “Haven’t we established that I am not only consenting but practically begging you? You’re not taking advantage of me!” I thump his chest with the palm of my hand. He grimaces. “Sorry.” I hiccup. “I’ll be gentle.”
    “You’d dislocate my collarbone or break my hip in the attempt, and you wouldn’t remember it tomorrow.”
    “My body would. I’ll play it back on KMT.”
    “We’ll try in the morning.”
    I stop short. “You’ll stay with me?”
    “Of course.”
    “Won’t you get in trouble with your folks?”
    “I’m eighteen.”
    I chew my lip,