If panic hadn’t frozen me to the spot, I’d leap off the sofa and run away.
Before I can even switch off the movie, he’s there, standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame, staring at me. His white shirt is open at the collar beneath his dark suit jacket, his hair all tousled. He's unusually dishevelled, and yet still so gorgeous that I wish closing my eyes would be enough to stop me from wanting him all over again.
“Hey,” he greets.
I pause the film. “Hi.”
“Can I sit?” he says, nodding at the sofa.
My palms grow clammy.“Sure.”
He paces towards me, his mask hanging off one finger. He tosses it on the armchair as he passes, making no attempt to explain it. He sits heavily beside me, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling. His throat is exposed like this, and when he exhales, I catch the scent of alcohol on his breath.
He’s drunk. Notstumble-and-drool-on-youdrunk, but more drunk than I’ve ever seen him.
I don’t press play on the movie, and he doesn’t ask me to, the glow of the frozen screen the only light in the room.
“Bad night?” I ask cautiously.
He looks at me sideways in a way that I interpret as, ‘fuck yes’. “Stupid party,” he mutters, tilting his head at the mask he chucked on the chair.
This is weird and awkward, but my body is buzzing.Excited.Terrified. It’s a toxic sensation; fear and arousal and everything all wrapped into one.It’s delicious.
His hand falls to his side, landing beside me on the sofa. Palm up, fingers curled. Large and strong.
It’s so close that his thumb grazes my hand. At the contact, his fingers twitch, but he doesn't move his hand.
It’s me who moves mine. My heart is in my throat as I slip my fingers through his, interlinking them. I don’t know why I do it, only that I want to, just like I did at the opera. He doesn’t close his fingers over my hand, but he doesn’t move them away either.
My pulse thumps in my palm where it’s pressed against his.
He closes his eyes, head still tipped back, but his fingers curl over mine as a muscle flickers in his jaw.
“I have to tell you something,” he says.
My heart gives another stupid thump. “Oh?”
“I had sex tonight.”
I can’t move. Hardly dare breathe. I need to stop this conversation. If I let him talk, everything will change. I’m not ready. “I don’t think—”
He raises his head from where it was resting on the back of the sofa and cups his free hand over his eyes for a moment, letting out a huff that’s almost laughter. “I called out your name.”
Fuck me.
A living, bruising silence weaves its way between us, tightening like the squeeze of a deadly snake.
My breathing is shallow, yet my chest heaves.Say it, Diana. Tell him. Tell him you already know.
But I can’t force a word from my mouth.
He strokes his jaw, fingers rasping against the dark stubble. “I called out your name,” he repeats. “And I imagined she was you.”
Oh, my God.
Heat filters through my entire body.
He squeezes my hand. I don’t squeeze back. I don’t know what to do with this confession. Yes, I told him to tell me, but I was playing a character—the scorned woman. Never in a million years did I think he’d really do it. I don’t know what I planned to do if he did, and now that it’s happening, I don’t know what he wants me to say or what he thinks telling me was going to achieve.
