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I thought, maybe, sometimes…he might be. A little bit. To parts of me.
But right now, Sullivan is not looking like he’s attracted to parts of me. He’s looking like he wants to eat me up like a whole, entire meal. Like he’s starving to do it.
And that feels extremely dangerous.
Because what I want…and what’s actually good for me…are two opposite things.
Each beat of my heart feels like the squeeze of a fist.
“We’re not going to do anything…that would be a disaster.”
“Really?” Sullivan says mildly. “How come?”
“Because this isn’t real. We’re not dating. And if we have sex?—“
“What?” He’s standing very close again, our bodies almost touching. His large hand reaches out, fingertips grazing the curve of my hip. “What terrible thing will happen if we have sex?”
Nothing.
Everything.
“I’ll get hurt.”
I say it quietly, barely more than a whisper. But Sullivan snatches back his hand.
“You’re right,” he says. ”I was being greedy.”
Even that word…greedy…feels like teeth on the nape of my neck. My knees get weak and wobbly.
I cannot have sex with Sullivan Rivas, no matter how badly I’m tempted. Because I know myself. I’m not a casual person—I’ve only had sex with four people in my whole entire life, and every one of them was a serious boyfriend.
I’ve never divorced sex from emotion, and now is not the time to try because I’m already completely out of control when it comes to Sullivan. When he’s around, I get hot and cold flashes like I’m menopausal. I say things I shouldn’t say. He convinces me to do things I never thought I would do.
Sullivan has probably had sex with a million people. He probably views it like sharing a stick of gum.
It wouldn’t matter to him if we had sex, it wouldn’t change anything.
But for me, it would be stripping off the last bits of my armor. And my armor around Sullivan is already weak—wet cardboard weak, limp spaghetti noodle weak.
I have to protect myself.
So I cross my arms over my chest and say, “We can’t have sex.” Telling myself as much as him.
Sullivan sighs. He picks up the knife once more, pressing it against the skin of a fresh tomato. “It’s true…we shouldn’t have sex.”
That’s what I just said, and yet, somehow, I’m disappointed.
I flee back to the Hibachi to bathe my face in smoke.
Stop it, you idiot. You’re embarrassing yourself.
This attraction to Sullivan is not going away. In fact, it’s getting worse.
I never felt this way about Trent, and we dated for over a year.
I liked Trent. The sex was decent. But I never obsessed over him. I never snuck glances at him, or took slow, shallow breathsof his scent, or swooned every time he ran his fingers through his hair...
This is some kind of juju.
