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She finally drops her hands from the door. Her eyelids seem to become heavy. Her chest rises and falls faster than just seconds ago. It’s now I notice she’s wearing an oversized check shirt. Only an oversized check shirt. And my breaths match hers in an instant.
I move into the apartment, and she takes a step back, not exactly inviting me in but doing nothing to stop it either. I kick the door shut behind me.
‘This is a bad idea,’ she whispers, her voice trembling.
Nodding my agreement, I step closer to her. ‘I know.’
I’m not sure who moves first but our mouths crash together. Her hands fist in my hair as our bodies collide. It’s messy. Hurried and frantic. But I swear nothing ever felt or tasted so good. She’s a mix of the taste I remember, some kind of unique sweetness that’s just her, and wine. A deep, smooth red. I wrap my fingers in her hair and force my lips to break from hers.
‘You’re drinking wine.’
I rest my forehead against hers and feel her push back, as if she’s frustrated. As if she wants more of what I stopped.
‘Yes. I thought wine would help. There was something I didn’t want to think about.’ She bites my bottom lip. ‘But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.’
I fight against her to take her lip in my teeth, a low, rumbling growl leaving my chest.
She groans and drops her head back, exposing her neck to me. I waste no time tasting her skin. She grinds her pelvis against mine and pushes my jacket over my shoulders to the floor.
I kick off my shoes. Everything I’ve been trying to resist since the first time I saw her takes me over.
She smiles at me, but it isn’t a sweet, innocent grin; it’s wicked, lustful. She begins to unbutton her shirt, torturously, button by button. She lets it fall to the floor, leaving her in only a black lace thong. She has never looked more beautiful.
But as her cheeks flush, she glances down and I know I’m losing her, her mind and body in different places. The self-assurance she showed a split second ago fades. I hold her cheek and lift her gaze back to me.
‘Don’t look down, Becky. You’re stunning.’
I press my mouth to her neck. Kiss her sternum.
‘Tomorrow,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll figure it out tomorrow.’
Her response is a heavy pant and an arching back. ‘Kiss me.’ Her words leave her as a whisper.
Gladly.
* * *
When I’m back in my jeans and she in her shirt, Becky pours me a glass of the red wine she has open. I stand by her in the kitchen and finally take in the open-plan apartment. The white walls would be cold, but Becky has filled the place with candles and colored cushions. Not so many that it’s stifling but enough to be warm, cozy even. I subtly search for photographs but all I see are pictures from New York, and few at that.
‘You don’t have pictures of your family and friends.’
She hands me a glass of wine. ‘I’m not really a sentimental person.’ She shrugs and sips her drink. The conversation is over, but I get the feeling that’s not true at all. I want to know what she keeps tucked away in her mind, but tonight, I just want to enjoy being with her.
We take our wine to the sofa. Before it becomes awkward, I wrap an arm around her and pull her to my side, giving her no option about where to sit. She takes my hand in hers and entwines our fingers. ‘I’m pleased you came over.’
‘Me too.’
She puts her glass on the coffee table and slides over to where she can trace shapes with her fingers on my chest and across my abs. ‘How come you look like this? What do you do?’
‘I box with one of my friends, Brooks. And run. I rock climb but not as often as I should. I like most sports, so if the guys get a game going and I can make it, I do.’
‘It’s good,’ she says with a chuckle.
‘So, tell me, how did you come to train with Edmond?’
‘Well, it’s kind of a bizarre story.’ She stops drawing shapes and rests her head against my chest, her hand on my stomach. ‘I was working in a café, making coffee and cakes. My nanna taught me how to bake. Her cakes were the best. And, like I’ve said, my family didn’t really have big aspirations for me. So, I ended up working in a local café. It was a chain, and one day I got a call saying they needed help in one of the London branches because the manager was on long-term sick leave. Some people thought it was a ridiculous idea for me to go… I mean, the commute. It didn’t sit easily at home. I thought it was a chance to get… into the city. And, you know, management experience.’ I feel her body tense as she speaks and stumbles over her words, as if this story isn’t as easy to say as it ought to be. ‘I spent half my wages in train fare commuting to the city, but it was… I don’t know, nice to be out of the town I lived in.’
She reaches for her wine and takes a sip, avoiding my gaze. I tug her free hand, encouraging her back to my hold.
