“He was a gynecologist who lived with his mother.”
I watch as his lips tremble while he tries to hold back a laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I’m studying child and adolescent therapy, not creative writing.”
He whistles. “That is rough.”
I shake my half-empty glass at him. “Hence the sudden road trip home that ends with me drinking alone on Thanksgiving.”
“You’re not alone,” he murmurs. I feel his pinky brush against mine as he shifts closer to me.
“Don’t do that,” I sigh, shaking my head and moving my hand away from him.
“Do what?” he asks softly, his breath fanning across my cheek.
“You know what.”
“Why?” He’s closer to me now, his voice no louder than a whisper. If I turn toward him, our noses will brush, maybe even our lips.
Absolutely not. Not after the day I’ve had. I won’t get sucked back into whatever this is just to wake up tomorrow and be told it was another mistake, that I was a mistake.
I down the rest of my drink and dash toward the door, leaving Asher sitting alone while I dart out into the night.
22
ASHER
I follow her.Of course, I follow her.
I’m right behind her as she runs out the door, and I grab her hand to stop her. She whirls on me, angry tears tracing down her cheeks, and her hair flies around her face, a few stray strands getting caught in the moisture.
I don’t know why I do it—pushing the lock of hair behind her ear. But touching her feels necessary, like breathing. Like I can’t bear notto.
Touching her, even as simply as my fingertips grazing the skin of her cheek, consumes me. It is the most exquisite kind of torture.
She flinches away from me, and something in my heart clenches.
She continues to march down the street, but then she grits her teeth and whirls on me. “It’s not fair,” she cries, a tear escaping and running down her cheek. I resist the urge to wipe it away, knowing that after her last reaction, it’ll just upset hermore. She takes a deep breath, gathering herself. “You popping up everywhere, kissing me and flirting with me, just to shove me away later and tell me I’m a mistake? That’s not fair, and you know it.” She angrily wipes at her cheeks, trying to scrub the tears away. “We shouldn’t be seeing each other at all, even platonically, or pretending like because we just happen to stumble into each other, it’s okay, because it’s not okay. The more I see of you, the harder it is for me to pretend like I don’t like you or enjoy your company!” she exclaims, and my heart skips a hopeful beat. “This isn’t fair, and it’s not okay,” she repeats as she runs a hand through her hair, frustration written all over her face.
She’s angry. Of course, she’s angry; she probably feels like I’ve been leading her on. I’ve been acting like touching her is a cardinal sin, but it’s something that I can’t help doing. I’ve been acting like it’s okay for me to see her outside of class and talk to her and flirt with her, and that it’s only wrong when we’re physical.
“You’re right, it’s not okay.” I nod. “I shouldn’t be giving you rides home, playing pool with you in bars, flirting with you. I shouldn’t act as if those things are appropriate or innocent, because they aren’t. I shouldn’t be jealous when other men flirt with you. I shouldn’t kiss you, or touch you, but I just can’t fucking seem to stop myself. Consequences be damned.”
I stalk toward her, and she backs away until her back meets the brick behind her. I can tell by the way her breath picks up, and her pupils dilate, that she’s not scared of me at all. When she bites her lip and arches her back the tiniest bit against the wall, I can tell it’s taking everything in her not to give in.
I place my hands on either side of her, boxing her in. I inhale her perfume, vanilla and lavender, and I groan. “The things I want to do to you are completely inappropriate.”
“Like what?” she breathes.
“What?” I ask, unable to focus when she’s so close to me. I run my lips up the column of her neck, barely grazing her skin.
“What do you want to do to me?”
“I want a repeat of the other night,” I murmur against her skin. “I want to do everything we’ve already done and more. I want to make you come so hard that the only thing you remember is my name.” I dip my finger into the low V of her dress, pulling her closer to me by the fabric so that our hips press flush together. Her breath catches, and I let my lips run along her jawline. “What do you want me to do to you?”
“Everything,” she murmurs. I lean closer to her, wanting a kiss, but she shakes her head, our foreheads rubbing against each other. “We shouldn’t,” she sighs. “We’ve already made too many mistakes as it is.”
I can’t help but frown at her words. Maybe it’s not the smartest idea to pursue something serious with her, but I refuse to consider it a mistake. And I’m hoping with every cell in my body that, despite what she’s saying, she feels similar to me.
