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“Shit, sorry,” I say, stopping. I slide the material back over her legs, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. “I didn’t mean to overstep…I just…when I’m nervous, it helps me to touch something.”
“No.” She leans back as if to look at me, but there’s not enough light for us to see each other, only to feel, a thought that makes—
Shit. This is an untenable situation. I have a sexy woman in my lap—one who is fast becoming both sexyandalluring—and her ass is pressed up against my dick.
“Sorry,” I repeat like an idiot.
“I didn’t want you to stop,” she says, her voice breathy in a way that’s not doing my don’t-get-hard campaign any favors. “It’s helping anchor me in my body. Sitting here in the dark, without any sound except for us…it’s like I’ve stopped existing.”
“You’re afraid of death,” I say like an even bigger idiot, although at least it does me the favor of deflating the desire that was flooding me.
“Of course. Isn’t everyone?”
“No. Not actively.” I start stroking her upper thigh again, because she said she liked it, and I definitely like it. “I think it’s fascinating. It’s one of the Big Unknowns.”
“Big Unknowns?” She shifts a little against me, and just like that, my cock is letting me know it likes her. As if there were any doubt.
“The things in life that are unknowable. So many things are governed by logic and the rules of science, but there are some Big Unknowns. There’s no way anyone canprovewhat happens after death. Science suggests nothing happens, obviously, but there are things that can’t be explained. Pulses of energy. Lights flickering on and off when there aren’t any power surges. Even the birth of the universe, we know how it happened, but for such a thing to happen…it’s…Well, I guess you could call it a miracle.”
“I like that you believe in miracles. You don’t seem like the kind of man who would.” She looks back again and then laughs. “I don’t know why I keep turning to look at you. I can’t see you.”
“It’s habit. When we do the same things every day, our body comes to rely on them. To think they’re going to happen, even if we’re across the world, with something completely different in mind.”
“So I think I’m going to see you even though I know I’m not.”
“Sure.”
She leans back a little, pushing her body into me and giving a jolt to my half-hard dick, then says, her voice low and throaty, “Well, IknowI feel you.”
“Shit, I’m really sorry, Mira. It’s been a while, and…”
She leans back further, and now I’m no longer partially hard. I’m made of stone. “It feels good. How long has it been for you?”
Shock radiates through me, because I thought…
Despite a few of the things she’s said and done here on the elevator, I figured she didn’t see me that way. When a woman insists you need a makeover, it’s usually because she doesn’t think you’re attractive.
So this is good news—confusing but very, very good.
I clear my throat, trying not to think with my dick. “I’d rather not say.”
“That long, huh?” she says, amusement in her tone. She leans her ass into me, grinding it slightly against my hard dick. My hand lifts from her leg to her stomach, my fingers fanning out to make it wider, and I hold her there. My mind isn’t functioning, so I’m not sure whether I’m holding her there to keep her from moving or because she’s exactly where I want her.
“Are you trying to drive me crazy?” I ask, my voice gruff.
“It’s been a few months for me too. Maybe I’m trying to drive myself crazy.”
I laugh a little at the “few months” remark. “It’s been longer than that for me.”
“Why?” she asks, still leaning into my dick and making it very hard to form a coherent thought.
The truth is, I’d had a lot of short relationships that led nowhere. Daphne’s prognosis of my life—basic—had lodged into my head. Everything seemed trite. The small talk, the dinners, the seduction. None of the women I met excited me, and I’m pretty damn sure I didn’t excite them either. I’d had a few one night stands, and while they scratched an itch, there are few things more depressing than waking up beside a stranger. Feeling the bone-deep awkwardness of wanting them to leave but not wanting to sound like an asshole. So I’d promised myself that the next time I fucked a woman it would mean something. That I wasn’t going to go through the same dance again and again, feeling the lack of profundity at every step of the way except for that one moment of pleasure that was all too likely to spill into sadness—the emptiness of a life half lived. Of something that looked like love but didn’t feel like it.
“I got sick of the dance,” I say. It’s probably the kind of comment that doesn’t mean anything to the person hearing it. I do that a lot, say things that make sense in my head and nowhere else, but Mira surprises me by leaning her whole body back into me and sighing.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
And I really think she does.
