Page 57 of Read My Lips

“Morning.” Signing was safer than speaking. Just a throwaway jump of my balloon hand from one shoulder to another. No big deal. No sentimental romanticising here. What a joke. Good sex was had. All the orgasms. Five stars no-strings fun. Come again soon.

As if he’d ever let me.

It wasn’t like he’d stared into my eyes and read my entire soul as I splurged all over his fist.

Blood-flow daggered back through my veins and I pumped my hand through the sick burn of heat, nostrils flaring with every breath. I did not whimper. Blubbing like a kid with a skinned knee was not on the agenda. Not today thank you.

Necessary filtering: squinting through my eyelashes to make everything blurry. Close up, the view of him rumpled against the sheets could blind me.

The bed creaked again as he stood up. “I’m going to go and see about some coffee. Stay put.”

Oh, he was perfection in human form. What had I even been worrying about?

“Now I know I love you.” I sighed happily, sinking down into the pillows – the dictionary definition of contentment.

“Sorry, what was that?” Simon’s smile vanquished itself, eyes sharpening with suspicion.

I froze, halfway levered up on my elbow. Why was he staring at me like I’d told him I wanted to put a ferret down his trousers? Like how I imagine someone would look if I told them I wanted to put a ferret down their trousers. Not that I had a ferret. Or wanted one.

Oh raging inferno of shame. A slow-motion tsunami of my own making crashed right over me. Did he think⁠—?

“I-uh..?”

Negative chill. That’s what I had. Icecap-melting winter highs.

Had I seriously just told a guy who’d made me vow I only wanted sex I loved him? Blood whooshed so loud in my ears the rest of the room receded to nothingness.

What had he said last night? Like a holiday. No strings. Just sex. Well, love confessions were a pretty big bloody string, Pinnochio. Even if they were coffee adjacent.

“I erm⁠—”

His eyes narrowed, zoned in on my lips like he was trying to retrofit an explanation. Words I did not have crumpled into a bloated, croaking whisper. Maybe he’d forget I said anything at all if I eyeballed him for a solid lifetime of silence.

Then he raised two fingers in a slightly diagonal V, knuckles towards me, eyes still glazed with confused horror. “You want two?”

Spots danced in my vision a nanosecond before oxygen rushed back into my lungs. “Yes!” I swallowed hard enough to hurt, nodding frenetically. “Yes. Coffee is exactly what I’m talking about.”

I’ll-have-two, I-love-you. The mouth-shape was close enough. When it came to lip reading, context was king. Thank fuck Simon was only entertaining one kind of reality.

Pretending to repeat myself, I layered a shaky rendition of Sign Supported English onto the disaster.

“Now I know I’ll have... two.” I cleared my throat, grinning inanely. “Thanks.”

My hand felt wooden, drawing down away from my face.

A stitch of a frown tugged his eyebrows together. Maybe I could telepathy him into believing I would never, ever even dream of confessing inappropriate feelings after having sworn it was totally casual.

Oh fuck. An innocent man would have laughed it off.

“Look, Ben”—he hadn’t bought it— “I’m not sure I should have let you do this.”

My smile smashed to a thousand pieces on the floor. Knuckles stiff, I signed anyway. He didn’t have his hearing aids in. I had to.

“Don’t be wet, I’m the one who⁠—”

Simon grimaced so fiercely I cut myself off. Fuck.

“Listen, we need to go into the office this morning.”