“We can rent another car. It’s okay.” He bends down, untying the laces of his shoe. “Besides, it’s not like we know where to go next.”
“You don’t think she went to Skye?”
He pauses, then continues removing his shoe. “It’s possible,” he says. “She’s always wanted to go, but I can’t imagine her doing it alone. Though yesterday I wouldn’t have imaginedanyof this happening, and now…”
He unrolls the high socks he was wearing with his kilt, his fingers long and deft as he slides the fabric down his calves.
The back of my neck heats.
I turn away from the fire just as it crackles, the flames flickering. Jacob’s face is cast in a warm glow in one moment, his brown skin almost golden, then hidden in shadow the next.
I excuse myself to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and retying my hair. I don’t have anything to sleep in, and though this dress was comfortable hours ago, the fabric is starting to chafe.
Maybe I can slip it off when I get under the sheets. I reach up, trying to undo the clasp at the base of my neck, but no matter how I strain, I can’t reach it.
“Would you mind—I need help getting out of this.” Jacob turns to look at me, and I wave a hand at the back of my dress. “I can’t reach the zipper.”
He stares for a long moment. “Sure,” he says, his voice a little rough. “Turn around.” He’s removed his suit jacket and untucked his button-down shirt, but his kilt is still on, and when he walks over to me, barefoot, it swings with each step he takes.
I wonder—briefly, the barest whisper of a thought—whether he’s wearing anything beneath it.
My gaze flits to his legs again before I remember I should befacing the other way. I turn quickly and sweep my hair over my shoulder to the front.
A second later, his fingers are at the nape of my neck.
He undoes the clasp efficiently, but the zipper catches when he pulls it down. He lets out an exhale, a harsh sound of frustration, and I feel it, wind traveling over the shell of my ear.
“It’s stuck,” he says. “I’ll have to—” He splays a hand over the top of my spine, pressing slightly, and my body responds to his touch as if by muscle memory, going lax, following his lead until I’m bending my shoulders down. This angle gives him the leverage he needs, and the zipper lets loose, my dress parting to the middle of my back.
I hold it up against my front as it starts to sag around me. “Thanks,” I say, straightening, but as I do, my hips brush against his.
He’s taken his sporran off, so there’s nothing between us but the soft fabric of his kilt and the thin material of my half-on dress. I can feel him growing hard and firm, and my lower belly catches fire.
We only had hours together, and that night, we never did it like this. Him behind me, his harsh breaths in my ear, my head falling back on his shoulder.
I can picture all of it, how it could be, if we let ourselves have another night like that.
But then Jacob steps back, and that fire inside me dies.
“Sorry,” he says. His eyes are bright, filled with heat, but they bounce around the room, looking anywhere but at me. “I’ll just—” He gestures to the bathroom and walks that way, closing the door behind him.
I stare after him for a moment, then switch off the main light, leaving the room in the fireplace’s glow. I take off my dress, leaving my bra and underwear on, and slip under the sheets.
I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, but as I begin to drift, I hear the shower turn on. I imagine Jacob stepping underneath it, rivuletsof water traveling down his chest. I picture what he may be doing, one palm against the cold tile, his head bent, eyes closed as he strokes himself.
Stop,I tell myself even as warmth climbs through me, pooling between my legs.
It’s inconvenient, this lingering attraction between us. And it’s clearly not one-sided. But we can’t do anything about it. I mean, I suppose wecould,theoretically, but Jacob’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about that night. That he wants to forget it ever happened.
He may want me physically, but he doesn’tlikeme, and that shouldn’t make my eyes sting. It shouldn’t cause a dull ache in my chest, because I don’t like him either. Not anymore.
I let out a huff of breath and turn onto my side, frustrated by the friction of the sheets against my skin, somehow irritating and sensual at the same time.
The sound of rushing water stops. Minutes of silence, and then the opening of a door, soft light spilling into the room.
I keep still, pretending to be asleep, and I hear the soft pad of footsteps. The crackle of the fireplace stops, the glow diminishing, and it’s only then that I wonder about our sleeping arrangements. I was lost to exhaustion and a hazy sense of want before, but now my heartbeat thrums in my ears.
He’ll climb into bed soon, and that will be perfectly fine. Perfectly platonic. We’ll just be two adults sharing the same space. We can do that.We’ve shared a lot more than that before.
