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“Yes. That’s the plan,” he says.
“Will that be hard for you?”
“I don’t like lying. Lying eats away at you,” he says, and he’s clearly speaking from experience, but whether he was the liar or the lied to, I don’t know.
“It can,” I say, tentatively. I don’t think I want to know more. It’s too heavy for a one-time thing.
“But I can’t find it in me to feel an ounce of regret over fucking you,” he says, holding my gaze, his eyes intense. “Do you? Regret tonight?”
How could I? I’ve wanted him since the first masquerade. And I’d much rather talk about us than about my dad, as it turns out. “No. I’ve been thinking of you too. Ever since I summoned you at the piano,” I say, enjoying admitting that.
“I had a feeling you were calling me over,” he says, lips curved up. “Now, tell me, Jules. Are you now as much of a fan of sex as you are of jammies?”
I smile, warming to his change of topic, my cheeks flushing. My stomach swoops as he wraps an arm around my waist. “It was better than my fantasies,” I admit.
“I bet you have very elaborate fantasies,” he says.
“I do.”
“Are yousureit was better?” He doesn’t sound uncertain—more like he’s playing with me. Like he’s flirting us right into our next bedroom liaison.
I wriggle against his hard frame. “I don’t know. Try again later and see.”
“Mmm,” he says, then nuzzles my neck. “Worth it.” He draws a deeper breath. “You wore Summer Day.”
“Well, you like it just a little,” I deadpan.
“I’m obsessed with the way you smell,” he adds. “And the way you look.” He fiddles with a button on my shirt. “Inmyclothes.”
I strike a pose, enjoying my…after-sex costume. “I do like this shirt,” I say coyly.
“So much you should wear it home,” he says.
“Like a sex trophy?”
“Exactly, Jules,” he says, and it turns out I do like getting to know him as much as I enjoy kissing him.
So much that I have to satisfy my curiosity. “Do you have a thing for honeysuckle? I smell it outside the window. I noticed it when I arrived.”
“There’s a shrub in the little yard. It was there when I moved in several months ago. Do you like it?”
“It’s pretty. It reminds me of…”
But am I really going to say it reminds me of my first teenage fantasies? To tell him it makes me think of an afternoon tryst on a hot day, the kind I used to daydream about when I first thought about sex, when I first craved a man’s touch, and now already it reminds me of you?
That’sa lotfor a one-night stand.
“What does it remind you of?” he prompts. He’s not going to let me get away without answering.
But maybe I can saya little.
“Wanting,” I say, and that seems like more than enough. “It reminds me of wanting.”
Finn lets out a low rumble. “Then now it will remind me of you.” He holds my gaze with a particular intensity that emboldens me.
“How old are you?” I ask.
He smiles softly, perhaps a little embarrassed. “Forty.” There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for a reaction from me. Shock? Surprise? But that’s not what I’m feeling. I’m feeling like forty is the sexiest age ever.
