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I carry the meal over to his desk and set it down on the credenza near his chair. Then I look down at his handsome, guarded face. He opened up to me at the ballet last weekend, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely remade. He’ll always be a difficult man—wounded and closed off and resisting any sort of vulnerability.
It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving tomorrow.
“Thanks,” William says again, looking from my face to the food. “It looks good.”
“It turned out okay.” I want to say something else. Anything else.
Tell him thank you. I’m so sorry. Goodbye.
That I might have accidentally fallen in love with him.
My chest hurts so much I can barely breathe. But I swallow over the strangling lump and give him a little nod. “Okay. Don’t work too hard.”
Then I leave. He doesn’t stop me.
I clean my mess in the kitchen and go to the media room to read on the couch. When I can’t focus on the words for more than five minutes at a time, I give up. Take a long bath and go to bed.
I doze off eventually, in spite the flurry of thoughts and emotions in my head. But I don’t sleep deeply and wake up immediately when William comes into the bedroom after midnight.
I turned off the lights earlier, so I watch him covertly in the darkness of the room as he starts to undress and then goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower running for a long time. Then he finally comes back out.
I can see before he turns off the bathroom light that he’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers, which is what he normally wears to sleep. And I feel the bed shift as he gets under the covers beside me.
It feels like he’s looking at me in the dark.
“Are you okay?” I ask hoarsely, surprising myself by speaking. I’m groggy and disoriented, and my chest still aches intensely.
I want to cry, but I can’t. For so many reasons.
“Yes.”
I don’t believe him.
“Areyouall right?” he asks in the dark after a moment.
“No.” It sounds like he really cares.
“Come here.” He reaches out to pull me against him.
I scoot over, letting him wrap his arms around me as I press the length of my body against his. He feels tense and strangely needy, and I hug him as tightly as I can. He smells like William—like he’s had a long, hard day—and the familiar fragrance makes my heart hurt even more.
We don’t say anything, so I don’t have to lie. We hold each other for a long time. When I finally feel William’s body start to relax, I realize that I’m relaxing too. Despite myself, I’m comforted, and I think he must feel that way too.
Eventually I fall asleep, my body still fitting snuggly against his.
* * *
It can likely be explained by the fact that I’ve been living for almost two months with a man I’m increasingly attracted to without having any outlet for that attraction. And also by the fact that I’ve been sleeping pressed up against him all night. But, for whatever reason, I dream about sex.
It’s a vague, abstract dream—with no storyline or clear details. But it’s deeply erotic, and the sensation of bodies, of urgency, of intensifying need grows stronger and stronger as the dream progresses.
The feelings are so intense I’m not even conscious of waking up just before dawn. My body has reacted to the carnality of the dream, and my hips are moving in response to that urgency.
My skin is flushed. My nipples tight and aching. The pressure between my legs is so intense I can’t keep from moaning. I’m grinding myself against the hard, hot man beside me, trying to ease some of the torturous physical need.
William. The man is William. And he’s lean and strong and deliciously warm. His body is as tense as mine, and one of his arms is wrapped around me.
I moan again as I rub my groin against his thigh, and my hand, without volition, strays down his body until I find the bulge of his erection in his boxers. I squeeze there, panting against his chest as he groans thickly in response.
