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‘I still want you to fuck me,’ I say boldly and catch the speculation in his eyes, the look of interest.
‘I know.’
‘So?’ I lift my hands to his chest, tentatively at first, lifting my fingers to his buttons and unbuttoning the top two. He watches me without a word as I move painstakingly down his shirt, separating it finally from the waistband of his trousers and revealing his broad, muscled chest. He has a tattoo on his left pectoral muscle, a muscle that is strong and firm. I lift a quivering fingertip to it and trace the letters: MCMXCIX
Roman numerals? I wish I could remember how to decode them, but it feels like for ever ago that I learned the symbolism, that I was taught to translate the Ms and Cs and Xs and turn them into relatable digits.
‘What is this?’ I murmur, wishing I were brave enough to lean forward and kiss him, to taste his flesh, to kiss him gently, firmly, desperately.
‘Numbers.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Yeah, obviously. But what number?’
‘Nineteen ninety-nine.’
He catches my wrist and pulls it away, but I lift my other one, running my hand over his chest and feeling every dip and swoop, every muscle and sinew. His skin is smooth to touch, roughened by
hairs down the middle. I swallow, taking a step to his side, where I see more tattoos at the top of his shoulder and across the blade of his bone. Tattoos that are somehow frightening, yet I don’t know why. One is of a wraithlike creature, eyes that are sunken and knees that look to be made of stone. I shiver when I look at it.
‘What’s this?’
His jaw clenches and I wonder if he’s not going to answer. But then he speaks, slowly, his accent thick and a lingering aroma of alcohol on his breath that should make me queasy but doesn’t.
‘Malingee,’ he says, the word inflected with sounds that are foreign and new.
‘Malingee?’ I repeat, hoping for the same accent and missing.
His smile shows that I haven’t pronounced it correctly. ‘It’s an Aboriginal spirit.’
‘Really? What’s its significance?’
He looks at me then and my breath catches in my throat for his nearness and beauty overtake me. ‘I like it.’
I nod slowly, tracing around his back. It is blanked of ink but ripples with muscles beneath sinew and flesh. I can hear my blood pounding in my ears, heavy and demanding, torrid and fast. I reach his other arm; there is a simple dark scrawl that runs over his round shoulder. My eyes meet his and perhaps he senses my doubt, for he lifts a brow and watches me, his own breath seemingly held.
I lean forward, emboldened by him, me, us, this. My tongue finds the swirling edge of the tattoo and tastes it and him; his saltiness makes my stomach roll with instant need. Suddenly, having sex with Noah Moore has become the most important thing in my world and I will do whatever I can to make that happen.
No longer do I hear a single doubt from within my mind; I am conviction and certainty. As if to underscore my commitment to this, I run my hands around his back and slip my fingers into the waistband of his pants, finding the inch of flesh at the top of his butt. I hear his sharp exhalation of breath, feel it rustle the hair at my temple.
My body no longer aches with the after-effects of overconsumption; I am alive with anticipation for what will be.
‘I haven’t slept with anyone since him,’ I say, knowing Noah understands. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone but him. Ever.’ I don’t know why but my smile is apologetic, as though my lack of experience might offend him in some way. And indeed, I see the shift of emotions crossing his face, the charge of wariness that makes him tighten and stiffen.
‘I don’t want him to be my only lover,’ I say honestly, shrugging my shoulders, forcing myself to hold his gaze. ‘I don’t want him to be that.’
‘You want me to fuck you to erase him?’
‘No,’ I say quickly, surprised at the way that sounds, about how it cheapens Noah—who should mean nothing to me and doesn’t. ‘I mean yes, but not just because of that,’ I say honestly. Uncertainty is creeping back inside me. ‘I thought you wanted this too.’
He looks at me with a hint of the mockery that defined our first and second meetings, a look that makes my doubts surge and makes me feel like maybe he really doesn’t want me at all.
Did I say something wrong? Do something wrong?
Heat tingles through me—regret is my bedfellow. I hate drinking to the point I am drunk. I never do it.
Aaron used to drink. Aaron used to be drunk, often.
I pull away from Noah, stepping backwards, wishing desperately I were fully clothed. ‘I...’ I lift a hand to my temple, pressing my fingers into it uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry.’
