I wouldn’t forget it either, but I wondered if it was for the same reason.
‘Am I allowed to enjoy the Fourth of July though, being a Brit? Aren’t I the enemy?’ His dark eyes were like liquid, glinting atme with mischief and affection, inviting me to play the way we always did.
And maybe I would have, if I hadn’t been so tired. Tired from work but also from this war raging within me between what I wanted and what I needed. What was sensible for Future Elle and what would be immensely satisfying for Present Elle. This fierce, burning longing had been wrapping its tendrils around me like a climbing vine for days, weeks if I was honest. And I didn’t have the strength anymore to slice myself free, despite knowing it was inevitable that I would have to soon. All I could seem to focus on was that I would not have to face that justyet. Not here and now.
‘You’re not the enemy,’ I murmured, lifting my little finger from where it rested and hooking it over his. ‘That’s all in the past.’
His smile faded slowly and he looked down at our little pinkies, this tiny but undeniable move I’d made to cross into new territory. Would he dismiss this as another sign of us becoming friends? My heart was loud in my ears, thudding like more fireworks were going off. Did I want him to realise this move was me inching across my own boundary? Or should I thank my lucky stars if he assumed it was a moment of platonic affection? Good lord, this ache was ridiculous and fantastic and terrible. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this conflicted or alive before.
He swallowed and his voice was so low it was almost a whisper when he asked: ‘What do you want to do now?’
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Stephen
Can I stay a bit longer?’ Elle asked softly, her bare shoulder brushing the skin of my arm and sending hot and cold flashes through me.
There was a strong possibility the universe had sent Elle to punish me.
Never in my life had I been so undone by tiny physical gestures like kisses on the cheek or holding bloody pinkie fingers. What was she doing to me?
If I liked a woman, I was comfortable with letting her know. It was simple. Gauge her interest in me, ask the woman out, accept her answer. Flirting was a little more organic. I tended to be led by them but if I judged something badly, an apology and backing off was all that was required.
But with Elle…if I made a misstep, if I disappointed her or read her signals wrong, she might never want to speak to me again, never want to see me again, and Ihatedthe thought of that.
I couldn’t cross the line. She’d drawn it and had good reasons to do so, and no matter how much my gut screamed at me that she was giving me signs that she was interested, I needed her to extend an explicit invitation.
Clearing my throat, I looked out of the window again, away from the sight of her slender finger hooked around mine. Now the firework display had ended, the view was back to its cityscape at nighttime, and the apartment was fully dark around us. I knew if I looked at her though, she’d be shining like a light my little moth brain wanted to smash itself against repeatedly.
‘Sure,’ I managed to say, like I wasn’t dying inside at how ambiguous her answer had been. What had I wanted her tosay?Strip me naked and use your mouth on me until I’m screaming with ecstasy?Heat punched into my groin and it took everything within me not to squirm in a way that would bring attention to it. ‘You must be shattered. You can crash in my bed if you want. I’ll take the sofa.’
She went still and then nodded, leaning away again and removing her finger from mine. It felt like she was ripping off my skin as she went but it was probably for the best. ‘Thanks. You’re right. I should probably go hit the hay.’
I stood up and pointed to the mezzanine floor. No way was I going to accompany her to my bedroom. I had a travel toothbrush kit in my suitcase that was in the cupboard by the front door. I’d just use that and remain down here. ‘You can help yourself to anything; a shower, one of my t-shirts to sleep in, spare tooth brush,’my sanity. ‘Whatever you need.’
She thanked me again and hopped down from the table. I went the opposite direction, into the kitchen, quietly rinsing out the bottles and putting them in the recycling so I didn’t have to watch her going up to sleep in my bed.
Except my eyes betrayed me as she reached the top of the stairs, and I caught her looking back down at me, face framed with stray waves of unruly red hair, the pale curves of her cheeks and shoulders and thighs catching the minimal light and glowing like a Botticelli model brought to the present day.
Ask me to join you,I begged internally.
But she just gave me a half smile and disappeared into the darkness of the bedroom.
Even if she did want me, she didn’t want itenoughto betray her good sense outright…and I was going to have to learn to live with that.
Chapter Forty
Elle
Enough, was enough. I had been lying in Stephen’s bed for at least an hour, maybe more, wearing one of his large, soft t-shirts, breathing in his scent from the crisp sheets, skin tingling with the memory of his touch, my mind unable to stop looping the sensation of his lips on mine, or his voice whispering “What do you want to do now?”
I might as well have been penetrated by him for how much he was consuming my body and soul. Actual, literal sex, could hardly have been more invasive. Certainly less of a time suck. Unless…no, I couldn’t let my mind go there.
This wouldn’t be the first night I’d lain awake, tossing and turning because I couldn’t get him out of my head. But those nights he hadn’t been just a staircase away. I could picture him, stretched out on the sofa, one arm folded behind his head, biceps bulging, his t-shirt pulled up so a strip of his abdomen was on display, his sweat pants dragged down a little too, the start of those muscles by his hips on show…maybe the material of his pants would even be tented a bit? Maybe he was thinking about me, lying up here…and maybe he was going to slide his hand down into his sweat pants and wrap long fingers around –
I stifled a groan and flipped over onto my front, burying my head under his pillow. Sometimes the imagination of a writer wasnota blessing.
