Page 75

He pulls off his jacket and slumps into the chair beside mine. I pour him a glass of wine, which he accepts but doesn’t drink. Instead, he stares off at the water, his expression pensive. Perhaps we aren’t as good as I thought.

“How was your conference?” I ask. “Are you ready for your big talk?”

He rubs his temples. “I just wish it was over.”

Hayes is so smugly overconfident most of the time. It never occurred to me he wasn’t every bit as blasé about this talk as he is everything else. “You’re nervous?”

“I’m just tense. It’s fine.”

“What helps?” I ask.

His eyes flicker over my face, remain a half second longer on my lips. My nipples tighten under his perusal. “Exhausting myself.”

I can think of so many ways we could accomplish that. But there’s never been a greater distance between us than there is in this moment.

I climb to my feet and stand behind him. Back in New York, I used to give Matt a massage before auditions. I even took a massage class for him, which seemed loving at the time and now seems kind of pathetic.

“Here,” I say, placing my hands on his shoulders, which are...so fucking nice. Broad and rounded muscle, perfect for anatomy drawings and Men’s Health covers. I begin to rub.

“Tali,” he says, a warning in his voice. And then he groans. “My God. How are you so good at this? I’d have had you do this every day if I’d known.”

“It’s not a standard thing I offer employers, oddly enough. But I guess that argument no longer applies given that I don’t usually blow my employers either.”

He lurches forward, out of my grasp, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “You need a warning bell on your mouth sometimes.”

I stand frozen, my hands hanging in midair.

He runs a palm over his face and climbs to his feet. “I’m going to call the concierge about dinner. What would you like?”

Focus, Tali. Be normal. Save this. “I—” My mind is absolutely blank. “I’ve, uh, heard there’s good Italian in North Beach.”

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that? Sam?”

I blink. Yes, of course it was Sam.

He takes one look at my face and sets his drink down on the table so hard the glass splinters. “Fuck,” he hisses. He pushes both hands through his hair and then glares at me. “You know what I’d like to know?” he asks. “How long you’ve been keeping all this to yourself. How fucking long have you known you were leaving and failed to mention it? Did you know when Sam was here? Has that been the plan all along—move home, settle down with your dull old mate?”

I want to be mad at him but feel some inexplicable urge to cry instead. I swallow hard. He has no right to make me feel bad about anything. “How could it possibly matter?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” he says. He takes one long step toward me. I step back to the wall, and he closes the distance. “You know it matters.”

My heart is thumping so loud it’s audible, echoing in my ears. “I—”

His mouth lands on mine, rough and unrestrained, as if he’s been pushed slightly too far. And all the tension I’ve held for the past week—tension I didn’t even know was there—snaps loose and unfurls like a sail in a storm. I’ve dreamed about those minutes on the deck, have woken each day feverish and desperate for more. And I’ve spent a week hating myself for the way I ran, like a coward.

I lean in to him, giving in to all his frustration and my desperation. My fingers grip his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss even more. His jaw scrapes my skin and his lips move over my neck. He slides one hand inside my robe, the heat from his palm gliding along my torso, to the underside of my breast. My nipples tighten so hard they ache.

He started this, but I take over, pulling him through the balcony door, my eyes never leaving his face. He looks as hungry, as desperate for this, as I feel, and I don’t stop until I have him in my room, where I shove the suitcase off the bed with a clatter. I half expect him to laugh at my haste, but instead, he lays me down on the duvet and looks me over like a feast he’s about to devour.

He unbuttons his shirt and wrenches his belt free. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. The pants fall, and then he’s standing before me in nothing but boxers, the thick swell of his cock jutting against them.

I’d be a little intimidated now if I didn’t already know how perfectly he’ll fit.

He climbs over me and traces a path—clavicle, sternum, down to the sash which he flicks open with a single finger.

And then his lips find mine. I wrap a leg around his waist, pushing my hands into his hair. When he starts to slide lower, I stop him. “No,” I whisper. “I want you inside me.”

He winces. “I’m not going to last. Let me—”