I pull off my clothes, rubbing the lines my bra left over my rib cage and on my shoulders. The bathroom light feels too bright and I wince as I flick it on. The sound of pots or pans and running water make it all the way back here as I wipe away my makeup and wash my face.
“What are you doing?” I yell but he doesn’t answer. Pulling on a favored pair of worn black tights and an oversized University of Minnesota T-shirt, I pad back to the kitchen. “I recordedJeopardy.”
Wesley presses a warm mug, fragrant with my favorite brand of peppermint tea, into my hand. He snorts into a glass of water. “Did you already watch it?”
I pause for a moment, at the thoughtfulness of making me a tea. He already does these tasks at work but somehow they feel heavier, more important when he does them here, in my home. Then his words replay in my head. I pin him with a glare.
“I don’t need to watch it first to beat you, if that’s what you’re saying.”
A small smile curls one side of his mouth. “You make a good point, Ms. Blunt.”
He follows me to the living room and we settle on the couch. He puts his feet up on the coffee table and I put my feet up on his shins, like we’re two people with a routine, comfortable enough that we do things like this every night.
As I turn on the television and find the right episode, he plays with my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “I have a question,” he murmurs.
“What is the Hapsburg Empire?” I say to the TV. I get that endorphin hit that comes when I answer the question before the contestant can.
“Why did you come tonight?” he asks.
I open my mouth. Another answer in question format on the tip of my tongue. But I turn to him instead.
“I thought...” My eyes fall to his tie. “I know you’re not...” I take a deep breath.
I want to be more like him. I want to say what I’m feeling the same way he can. But I’m not sure I even understand what I feel. Not when it comes to Wesley.
“I bailed on our date and I wanted to make it up to you.”
He nods. “I appreciate that but I already have to go all day at work not being able to touch you. Standing beside you tonight and not being able to put my hands on you was torture.” He punctuates this with one hand on my thigh, possessive and hot.
I blink slowly up at him. The best thing about him is how he always seems to feel the same thing I do. He puts the feelings into words for me, when I can’t. I imagine his hands on me at Happy Hour. Standing beside each other with the warm weight of his palm on my hip. On my ass. A stolen kiss, pressed quietly to my neck when the others go to the bar to get drinks. Meeting in the hallway by the bathrooms and grinding against each other while our bodies buzz from alcohol and music and laughter. My arousal is a warm drink, filling me up slow.
His eyes bounce between my own. His gaze feels like the softest touch, like lips gently brushed over skin. “You took off your makeup,” he says, like he’s just noticed.
I nod.
“I can never decide what I like better.” He presses his thumb to my mouth, dragging it across my lower lip and chin. “Your red mouth or how soft your skin looks, and how your lashes are still wet. Or how I know that your lips are the same rose color as your nipples.”
The best thing about Wesley is also that he knows exactly what to say to make me want to fuck him. But he never knows that he’s saying it.
“Do you want me to put my hands on you now?” he asks quietly into the space between us.
“No.” I shake my head. I can’t say the things I want to say but I’ve always been better at action. “I want to touch you.”
I brush my lips against his. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I made you feel like a dirty secret. You’re not.”
“It’s okay,” he says between kisses. His nose bumps mine.
“No,” I say, angry. “It’s not.”
It isn’t okay. He shouldn’t have to feel that way. “Sometimes, Wesley, I feel like...” My heart trips in my chest. “You’re the only thing I can hold on to.”
Between my mother, Richard, my job, Wesley—my intern whom I am secretly fucking—is the only stable thing I have. And I hurt him.
“You were mad at me the other night, when I tried to kiss you.”
His dark eyes are cool. “It felt like you were trying to distract me from the problem.”
Sudden tears sting my eyes. “I just...you’re so...strong, Wesley. You’re so brave.”
