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Her heart did a backflip at the nonchalant tone. ‘That’s dreadful.’ She frowned. ‘But since when does being in an abusive relationship change your sexual orientation?’
Art leant back, the intense look making the butterflies in her stomach feel inebriated. ‘It doesn’t, necessarily. But I have a theory about human sexuality.’
That Art had a theory about anything seemed both incongruous and sort of hot, that he had a theory about human sexuality seemed even hotter. ‘What’s your theory?’
‘We may think we’re either gay or straight, but in reality everyone falls somewhere on a spectrum between the two.’ He frowned. ‘I figure we’re all a little…’ He took a contemplative sip of gin. ‘Shit, there’s a word for it.’
‘Bi-curious?’ she supplied.
He slammed his glass on the table and pointed a finger at her. ‘That’s it. Bi-curious. I figure some of us our brave enough or, in my mum’s case, unhappy enough to see where those urges take us.’
His theory sounded enlightened, especially for a guy as solidly heterosexual as he was. But then he did have a daughter who wanted to be a boy.
‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘But, be honest, have you ever wanted to shag another guy?’
He considered that for a minute. ‘I guess not. But guys have wanted to shag me. And I found it pretty flattering, so that probably puts me on the spectrum.’
‘Art! That’s astonishing.’ So astonishing, she couldn’t quite believe it. He was so earthy and straightforward. The smell of him, the look of him, the gruff voice and surly silent charisma.
‘What is?’
‘You’re a secret metrosexual.’
He chuckled. ‘No shit.’ He placed his glass on the table, then leaned forward, spreading his knees, to draw closer. ‘Is that better than being a douche canoe?’
‘Absolutely,’ she murmured, distracted by the ticking pulse in his neck for the first time. He had a lovely neck, strong and muscular and not too wide, the shadow of his stubble visible from just above his Adam’s apple. Reddened skin looped across his collarbone where he’d worn his T-shirt in the sun. The working man’s tan. She got fixated on the well of his clavicle, thinking of the warm blood pulsating through the vein under the skin. And the salty taste that would gather on her tongue if she flicked it over the pulse point.
Warmth settled over the butterflies now jitterbugging in drunken glee.
‘Have you ever kissed a girl?’ The rough, low sound of his voice was even deeper than usual. The spice of awareness danced between them, the lingering aroma of Dee’s vegetable moussaka overwhelmed by the phantom scent of sultry summer heat.
Her gaze rose from his throat. His irises were the colour of chocolate. Rich milk chocolate with hints of coffee and caramel. Yum.
‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who fantasises about women making out?’ she said.
‘Are you evading the question?’ he said, evading the question.
‘I have kissed a girl,’ she murmured.
‘Really?’ His eyes flared as he lifted his hand, his big work-roughened hand. The long blunt finger trailed up her arm, tracing the veins in her wrist. She stared at the short blunt nails, the wide bridge of his knuckles, the nicks and cuts and abrasions from the physical labour he did with his hands every day – the jagged line that ran down the webbing between his thumb and his forefinger which she’d watched being sewn up three weeks ago – as the tip of his finger travelled all the way to her elbow. His finger swept across the inside, triggering a multitude of sensations, both brutally exciting and not exciting enough.
‘What was it like?’ he said, the husky tone of voice reverberating in her clitoris.
‘Hot.’ But not as hot as this. Not even close.
His thumb pressed into the inside of her elbow, as his fingers wrapped around her arm. He tugged her towards him, until his lips were only a whisper away from hers. ‘Do guys kiss different to girls?’
She could smell the juniper sweetness of the gin on his breath, see the dilated pupils.
Who knew? Art was a cheap drunk.
Her insides clenched and released. The butterflies, their wings on fire, fluttered frantically. ‘I couldn’t tell you, I’ve never done a thorough comparison.’
He blinked, in slow motion, the thick lashes lowering and then rising again on half speed. ‘I’m a little pissed,’ he said. ‘But I think we should remedy that.’
His other hand lifted to curl around her neck. The long fingers threading into her hair, the rough caress glorious against the sensitive skin of her nape. Until his large palm supported her skull.
Her hands fastened on his waist, dipping under the hem of his shirt to find warm, firm flesh.
