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He leans in. “Nope, no idea.”
“Sex.”
Lance shakes his head slowly. “That’s not what you were going to say.”
We’re close to eye level, his breath hot on my lips, his eyes tracking my every movement. “I remember it flowing quite nicely through those lips, many times.”
“Fucking,” I own it. “But I don’t like to be that vulgar when I’m not in the heat of the moment or pissed off.”
“I’m hurt, Priss, I thought we made love.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“’Sides, I thought I was a gentleman about the whole situation.”
“You almost passed for one. And what’s up with that? Who are you, and what did you do with Caveman Prescott?” I can’t figure him out. His eyes and lips, even his language all scream intimacy, and yet he hasn’t gone out of his way to touch me or claim me in any way, even for the moment, even if his visit is brief. Maybe his intention isn’t at all to win me back. Maybe his point of visiting is just that. I swallow, tracing the light bruise on his jaw.
“Be proud of me, Priss,” he says through thick lips. His eyes are drawing me closer as I inch my fingers around his face. Nipples drawn tight, I’m far too eager to give in one more inch and draw on his lips. The buzz between us is there, it’s heav
y in my limbs, my aching center, becoming harder to ignore. I never asked if he had anyone waiting for him back home. And the question is getting harder to pose.
“Proud of you for?”
“I’m a growing man,” he says gruffly. “Speaking of which, I’m starving.”
“O-okay,” I stutter out reluctantly, pulling my hands away. “I’ll, uh, get my purse. We’re going to my nana’s first if that’s okay? I just need to show my face and spend a little time with her since my Christmas plans changed last minute.”
“Sorry,” he says, sincerely apologetic.
“I’m not,” I say, sliding my purse on my shoulder. “Let’s get you fed.”
Lance and I take the steps up to the brownstone as I pull my keys from my jacket pocket before unlocking the door. “Nana, where are you?”
“Hey, Dove, I’m in the kitchen.”
“I’m not alone,” I call out in warning.
“The more the merrier.”
“I bet she’s making matzo ball soup,” I say excitedly. “It’s tradition. Today is the first day of Hanukkah.”
Lance hesitantly steps into the house, glancing around.
“Don’t worry, she’s a little old school, but surprisingly open-minded, and she’ll love you. Take your boots off.” Lance unlaces his boots and sets them on the doormat next to mine.
Nana calls out to us from the kitchen. “Come on in, I’m making matzo soup.”
“Told you,” I say as Lance takes his time perusing the two-story townhome I’ve spent most summers living in since I was five. He stops short of the entryway, fixed on a picture of me in a pale pink leotard and matching tutu. “That was my first recital. I was two.”
He grins and grabs the frame to study it up close. “Cute.”
“Yeah, well, it was a disaster. I sneezed and peed all over my leotard but kept dancing. That’s showbiz.” Setting the picture down, he takes a step forward and scans the wall of the staircase, which is basically a photo collage of my dance history. Dozens of pictures tell my story by photograph, showing my growth. He runs a finger over the latest addition. It was a showcase I did in Spain.
“This is cool.”
“It’s a little embarrassing. You would think I’m her only grandchild.”
“She’s proud is all.”
