But tonight, I’m fresh out of fucks to give, and I don’t move away.
Instead, I take a slow sip of wine, letting the smooth, rich flavor coat my tongue, feeling it trickle down my throat. It does nothing to cool what’s building.
Two large, warm palms settle on my upper thighs, and a shudder rolls through me. My thighs flex against his hips, and he groans, feeling my muscles beg him to pull me closer. Our eyes never leave each other, as though we're daring the other to blink. To pull back.
It’s always been our rhythm, one step forward, two steps back, this constant, aching dance that neither of us knows how to resist.
Then, the softest touch—a single, whispered stroke along the curve of my thigh. So soft it might not have happened if not for the way it sears into my skin. I bite my bottom lip, stifling the noises that threaten to escape. His breath hitches, his finger continuing its leisurely path, writing a confession against my skin.
As the final notes to the song fade away, so does his touch. I stay perched on the counter, trying to reclaim whatever scraps of composure I can muster. Trying to calm my galloping heart.
James moves to a stool, placing distance between us.
Silence stretches. Both of us look at our feet instead of each other.
What do you say to the man you love but pushed away?
He’s laid it all out, more than once.
And all I’ve done is whipsaw between fear and indecision.
I grab my phone and change the music. Not-so-innocently, I put on Tinashe’s Christmas album. The familiar chords drift through the air, an instant throwback to a night years ago of stolen glances and undeniable connection. A night that led us to this moment.
“Any reason in particular you picked this album?” James asks.
“Nope.”
I meet his gaze, daring him to call me out, to acknowledge any of this.
But he doesn’t. He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. The strain between us loosens. We slip back into something familiar, talking about my cases, his buildings, running, books, travel. The mundane details of our everyday lives act as a buffer against everything simmering below the surface.
This part has always been effortless. When we’re alone, we can let the outside world fall away. We never run out of things to say, and when we do, the silence between us is comfortable.
One hour turns into two.
It’s well past midnight—the hour when reckless decisions are made.
“Should we go to the sunroom? It’s more comfortable than a hard countertop.” His voice is rougher than before, suggesting he’s reached his limit for aimless talk.
Without overthinking, without giving myself the chance to second-guess, I slide off the counter. My heels click against the hardwood as I lead the way.
The moment we step inside, the past rushes in. Neither of us speaks. The faux ease from downstairs slides away, leaving only what we’ve been hiding from. He silently closes the French doors, flips the lock, and leans against them, taking his own time.
I settle in a chair and turn toward the window, feigning distraction, but I feel him. Each step reflected in the window as he closes the distance. The only light comes from the Christmas tree, casting gentle shadows and sparks of color, wrapping us in a space that’s only ours.
He spins my chair around.
And he’s there.
On his knees.
I part my legs without thinking. He moves forward, closing the space I’ve wordlessly offered. His fingers skim along my cheek, and I arch into his touch like a cat seeking the warmth of the sun. A quiet, shuddering breath escapes him, and I draw it in, feeling it down to my toes.
He rests his forehead against mine as his hands drift lower, his thumbs pressing slow circles against my thighs. An ache ignites inside me, deepening with every stroke of his fingers. A small, helpless whimper escapes my lips. His eyes darken, fingers flexing against my skin.
We’ve never kissed. We’ve never crossed any physical line.
But emotionally?
