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Her eyes are hazy, and her lower lip, where I touched it, is still open, soft. I want to lick it. I want to lick her mouth and find her tongue with mine and?—
She’s been slowly tilting toward me, and now she slides her hand into my hair, tightening it to the point of discomfort, which in turn causes my whole body to knot, my cock so hard it hurts. And then her mouth is on mine.
She’s so eager and needy. I answer the kiss instinctively, fitting our mouths together, finding her tongue with mine, devouring her. I cup my hands behind her head so I can get more of her, all of her—because I want every last taste and lick and moan. And she’s right there, matching every breath, every stroke, every quiet groan that creaks out of me.
And then she’s pulling away.
“What am I doing?” she groans.
And I know what she means. I know exactly what she means.
“God, Shane,” she says. “I’m being such a fool. I think—I think I should probably just go home—by myself—tonight. So I don’t—so I can straighten myself out.”
I want to say, Don’t push me away. I’m being a fool, too. I want things I’m not supposed to want. I want things I can’t have.
But none of that comes out of my mouth. Instead I say, “Yeah. Probably a good idea for both of us. Just get a little, you know, head space.”
She bites her lip. “Exactly. Head space.”
We settle up with Alana and tell her we definitely want her to do the wedding and that she should get in touch with Hanna to pin down the details.
We gather up our stuff—our phones, her wrap—and walk out of the bar with my arm around her shoulders. I walk her out to my car and open the passenger’s side door for her. She hesitates a moment before getting in—like there’s something she wants to say.
Please say it, whatever it is, I will her, but then she turns away and slides into the car.
We’re quiet on the way back to her house, the radio playing country music, giving us the perfect small-talk opportunity.
It feels cold and empty, talking about things that don’t matter with someone who does.
33
Shane
I go back to the hotel, fall backward on the bed, and lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking, Shane Hott, you’re a bigger idiot than Anthony Fessa because that guy obviously had no idea what a good thing was and you do—and just walked away from it.
I bang my head a few times against the pillow and then let out a groan of disgust with myself.
Almost against my own will, I reach for the remote, and before I know it, I’m hunting down Bridge on one of the hotel’s streaming services.
Because watching Ivy on-screen is not as good as kissing her or making her writhe with pleasure, but it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.
Except about twenty minutes in, I realize I’m watching the episode with the engine-room scene in it.
Oriana has confessed to her best friend in the crew that it’s been a long time since she got laid. She used to have a lot of casual sex when they made refueling stops or delivered cargo, but it got old. Most of it wasn’t very good, which meant that it didn’t even always scratch the physical itch. Oriana gets cagey at that point, but we’re definitely supposed to think that she’s lonely and has a lot of unmet emotional needs, too.
And then they pick up a passenger. A guy they’re taking to a planet at the edge of the galaxy, a long trip. One day, he drifts into the engine room and strikes up conversation with Oriana. It turns out they have a ton in common. They talk for hours—montage!—about their shared interests, their similar worldviews. Oriana is falling—you can tell. Their flirting gets more intense, and the eye-fucking?
I’ve always had a ton of respect for any actor who can convey so much chemistry with just facial expression and small changes in body language. And Ivy definitely can.
I can’t take my eyes off her face. Off the flush high in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes and the hungry softness of her lower lip.
I’ve seen that face—right before I kissed her. Right before I put my hand where her hand had been moments earlier. Right before I dropped to my knees in front of her.
And I want to tear apart the guy who’s on-screen with her.
I don’t care that he’s fictional, that the actor probably never touched Ivy in any way that wasn’t signed off on by two different intimacy consultants. I don’t care that none of this happened, that Oriana isn’t Ivy?—
What I’m feeling right now is so primal that it’s right down at the bottom of my brain where you can’t drink it into oblivion or sleep it off or carve it out with a fucking scalpel.
