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Edwin’s eyes soften. Though the obsidian never loses its hard edge, there’s something so comforting about the endless black of his eyes. “He’s about your age. Probably more suited for you than I am.”
My mouth grows hot.
Tell him, tell him, tell him. “I think you’re perfectly suited for me.”
His mouth spreads into a smile. Then, he leans down and kisses my forehead like I’m some dear, innocent thing.
But I’m not. I’m a liar.
His breath caresses my skin. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for calling. You can always call me.”
What are we really doing here? Our littleaffair is turning more romantic by the minute.
It seemed fine when we had our clandestine meeting in The Underground. Even when we fucked at Bergdorf’s. But the emotions bubbling up arenotfine.
The closer our lives get to becoming entangled, the closer I get to the whole thing combusting when he finds out the truth of who I really am.
Edwin kisses each of my cheeks, his eyelashes tickling my face.
I giggle before he plants an eager, soft kiss on my lips.
“Are you hungry?” He smooths his hand down the back of my head. “I’ve had my chef start on dinner.”
“Your chef?”
“I’m not much of a cook.” He shrugs.
Enjoy this. After everything you’ve both been through, you both deserve someone to take care of you tonight.
“I could eat.”
Edwin grins.
I don’t knowhow we’ve been able to resist each other this long.
Through dinner and dessert, Edwin and I managed to keep our hands off each other. We talked about so many things upon which we haven’t touched. Our taste in art and music, our opinions on politics and current events, stories from our past, even if I was skirting around the past three-ish years to keep him from getting any hints at who my ex-boyfriend is.
Now, we’re in the den, which is a very simple word for the place where Edwin stores his collection of books and vinyl records.
He thumbs the vinyls lining one of the walls. “When I have time,ifI have time…” He picks out our soundtrack for the evening. “I like to come in here, put on a record, and disappear into a really good book.”
He chooses some classic easy jazz, heavy on upright bass.
At first, we sit at opposite ends of the couch, but eventually, we gravitate close enough that I can grab his hand and pull him into letting his head settle on my thigh.
I stroke the side of his face, letting my fingers explore the ridges of his eyebrows and the prickly sensation of his unshaven jaw. “So pretty.” And it’s true.
He’s the sexiest example of a man I’ve ever seen, but he could also be in a museum, with how sculptural and chiseled he is.
Edwin’s lips perk up. “Pretty? Not sure I’ve ever been described as pretty.”
“Well, you are.”
“Not nearly as pretty as you.”
My insides flip flop.
