Page 89 of The Apparent Trap

He sees the hesitation and comes closer. He pushes a lock of hair behind my ear, tenderly, slowly.

“I’m sorry, my hair is a mess,” I say automatically, wondering how I must look now to him, rained-on locks drying akimbo.

“You’re perfect.”

“No one’s perfect.”

He kisses my temple. “You’re perfect for me.”

“Even with mascara pooling under my eyes?”

He bends down to see, as though this is the most salient investigation. He comes closer, and I automatically close my eyes. He kisses each eyelid softly, as though he can kiss away every insecurity I have just through his affection.

“I don’t think you realize how much every part of you turns me on no matter what you’re wearing or what state you’re in.”

“I do not realize that, no,” I say, my nonchalant laugh trying to hide a lifetime of not knowing how to take a compliment.

“Well, let me tell you,” he says, his arm around my waist, steering me out of the entryway. He’s walking me backward, and I’m happy to follow wherever he’s decided to take me. We’re in my apartment, and yet all I want is for him to take control of whatever’s happening here. “The first time I met you, you were wearing those sparkly cowboy boots, and I was desperate to hear what the zipper would sound like when I pulled it down. I wanted to run my hands through your Botticelli curls.”

He keeps walking me back, intuiting the direction of my bedroom.

“The second time I met you,” he continues, “I was stunned to see you standing in front of me, in the sexiest hot-for-teacher glasses I’d ever seen.”

“That’s not a thing,” I laugh. “That’s just me working early in the morning. My hair was a mess—”

“No, your hair was thrown up into a ponytail, and the curls were popping out at the sides, and you looked so casual and gorgeous I could’ve screamed.”

I have no quippy comeback to that. He opens my bedroom door, peeks in, and sees he’s in the right place, then walks us inside. He closes the door and presses me up against it. I whimper. I want to kiss him again so badly I consider throwing myself on him. But he’s relishing the slow pace. He’s taking his time with me, savoring me, and it’s driving me deliciously crazy.

“Every time I ran into you in the office, you had some other version of a cozy sweater like the one you’re wearing today.”

“Yes, women in oversize sweaters are known for their sex appeal.”

He runs a hand under mine along my hip and up the curve of my waist. The movement makes me shiver. “You have no idea. The first night I saw you was like a feast of every single curve, and then you hid them from me for weeks.”

“Hid them from everyone, to be fair.”

“And then,” he says, ignoring my downplaying as though I’m not even saying it, “you showed up for Thanksgiving in that dress.”

“I literally cannot even remember what dress I wore to Thanksgiving.”

“I remember,” he says, his hand moving farther up and making me shiver. He runs his fingers ever so gently under the strap of my bra, teasing, like he wants to make sure I register every possible place he could touch me. “It was hunter green and had this little crosshatch pattern, and you were wearing black tights, and your hair was fully down and curly, and you looked like an ad for autumn.”

I have no response to this new reframing. Especially now that his mouth is ghosting across my neck, kissing me softly and taking its time. My hips lean into him, and I can feel how much he’s holding back, how much he wants me too. But he doesn’t take the bait.

“When we got to Sweden and Carmen asked if I wouldn’t mind sharing a room with you, I thought I’d rather sleep outside than be tortured by having to see what you wear when you sleep. But I couldn’t do that without insulting you, so I had to live through seeing you in that perfect oversize flannel, with your hair all twisted up but with one fucking curled strand free.”

“Okay, so maybe I was wrong to worry about my hair with you,” I say, my laugh a huff of pent-up desire.

He lazily takes a curl and wraps it around his finger like it’s the most delectable item he’s ever seen. “Oh you should worry,” he says, his smirk playful and hungry all at once. He tugs my hair a little, and it hits my nerves down to my toes. “But maybe because I’m not planning on letting it go.”

His mouth sinks onto mine, that hunger no longer containable. We’ve both spent so long denying that we want more. And not just about each other, but everything—more affection, more connection, more time to stand still. We’ve let the past convince us we were better off shielding ourselves, that we’d kept out the best parts of being human for the sake of protection. But I’m surprised how little fear I feel now. I’m surprised by how much I believe he’ll catch me if I fall. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way since I lost my mom: that I could put all my weight on someone else, and they wouldn’t topple over from it.

I’m pressed hard against the door, pinned in place, and I want this pressure everywhere. I want him on top of me, inside me, taking me over.

“Much as I love this door,” I start, “I feel like the odds of success are better on a bed.”

“You don’t subscribe to the belief that two people could fit on a door?”