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“Suspense,” I say.
“Suspense,” he repeats in a deep voice.
We gauge each other for a moment, neither him nor me adding anything, and I have the feeling that the air is loaded with something indescribable. An electricity, a palpable tension, almost sexual. My breathing becomes difficult and my attention drifts to his lips. He doesn’t move, his arm still resting on the back of the couch, he analyzes me and, as I feel his thigh move closer to mine, I straighten up.
This is not the time to do something stupid, and act on a whim. I’m dying to throw myself on him, to rip off his T-shirt, to plunge my fingers under the fine fabric of his joggers, to draw circles on his glans, to guess the curves of his penis. I flare up, aware that my thoughts are driving me crazy. I know how this ended last time when I got carried away with my desire. We have just found a kind of complicity, without any discomfort, and I’m this close to screwing everything up.
It’s three o’clock in the morning. My head is stuffed with tequila and the musky smell of him is making me fall a little more. I grab the remote from the table—so I don’t grab anything else—and settle back on the couch. I’m trying to keep a reasonable distance from him and his body which awakens things in me that are far too indecent. His presence makes me dizzy. I tug at my pajama top, letting some air pass over my chest. I’m dying of heatstroke, and I still feel the tingling of his gaze on my cheek, my neck, and my whole body burns more.
“Who was your shot for?”
His voice is low, deep, and a shiver runs down my spine. My fingers tighten on the remote. I turn slightly in his direction, pretending not to be disturbed by his request.
“Since when is it your business?”
“You don’t want to tell me?”
He moves forward slowly, sliding his arm further toward me until his shoulder is almost level with mine. His leg bumps into my knee and his hot breath caresses my face. His playful smilecauses a flash of heat in my stomach, hurting a little more the ultra-sensitive part to the south. I challenge him with my eyes, he bends his head.
“I’m sure you lied,” he whispers. “You drank for your boyfriend, and you wanted to play the little rebel with this story of another boy.”
A smell of fresh mint mixed with the scent of alcohol tickles my nostrils. I bit my lower lip and his eyes are drawn to my mouth.
“Jealous?” I blurt out with confidence.
He smiles even more, shifts his face away from mine to stare at an invisible point on the television. Nolan bites the inside of his cheek. Then he turns his attention back to me, looking amused by the situation. His eyes look darker than usual, more glazed, sunken.
“Intrigued.”
“And above all a little drunk.”
He laughs and leans over. I pull back, realizing that I’m almost wedged between him and the arm of the couch.
Damn.
No more room to maneuver, and if he continues his little game, he’s not likely to appreciate the reaction that I’m trying to push back. My eyes glance at his mouth and I hold back a long sigh.
“I am in great shape.”
“Too bad your girlfriend isn’t here, then.”
He frowns and clicks his tongue against his palate. “Low blow, Scar.”
“Does she know you wanted to bang another girl tonight?”
My question came out by itself, and despite myself I think of Alison Hash. My blood runs cold when I see the reaction that my comment provokes in him. He’s irritated and his gaze intensifies.
“Jealous?” Nolan asks.
“I’d rather die.”
He laughs and his laughter makes my chest vibrate. “You are so sure of yourself, little one!”
“You are very pretentious, Jones.”
The hand that he had put on the back of the couch comes to press against my neck and I feel his fingers slip between my hair, pressing into my skin. He pulls my face closer and my breath hitches because his mouth is only a few inches from mine. He gauges me with blazing eyes.
“You’re pushing me a little too hard tonight,Scarlett.”
