When we finally arrive at my building, I lead her through the lobby with my palm pressed against the small of her waist, enjoying the proximity she seems to be allowing me. I’ve never craved anyone’s physical contact like this before, and I think if she told me to stop touching her now, I’d lose my fucking mind.
The elevator dings as the doors open wide, and I guide us through the opening. I pull away to type out the lock code for my penthouse floor, but once I’m finished, I’m shocked to find her hand reaching for mine once again.
Fuck.
She’s so perfect.
I look down at my girl, basking in her adorable, coy smile as she curls her fingers around mine. Yes, baby. I’m all yours.
The doors slide open to the living room of the penthouse, and I guide her toward the kitchen bar, sliding my hands to her waist and depositing her onto a seat before rounding the corner of the kitchen island.
“What would you like?” I ask, my lips cracking into a small smile. Damn, I can’t remember the last time I smiled so much. I can’t remember the last time I smiled, period.
Except I absolutely can remember, because it was the last time she answered my phone call. I’m so far gone for this girl.
“I don’t know. Whatever you make best.”
I reach into the cabinet under the bar, pulling out brand-new, unopened bottles for everything I need to make Manhattans and place them in front of her, letting her watch as I slowly crack open each one in her line of sight.
I remember that night she answered my call from the party—how she was too anxious to drink, thinking about someone drugging her again. I hope she trusts me enough to make her a drink, but I completely understand if she has a similar response. That experience must have been terrifying for her. Guilt floods through me at the memory while I mix the drinks. I’m still bothered that I didn’t manage to stop him in time.
As I pour her glass, I bask in the attention I can feel burning against my skin. She likes to watch me, too, I’ve noticed, and I love it.
“Come with me,” I say, pulling her toward the large glass doors to the balcony. I grab her coat from where she left it, draped on her chair.
“Wow,” she gasps, gaze narrowed to the breathtaking view of the city.
Taking advantage of her motionless examination, I slide her coat over her shoulders before moving to stand beside her. Then I shut my eyes and press them open once more, straining to imagine how it all looks to her fresh gaze. The lights of thousands of buildings glitter against the harsh shadows of the night, each one seeming to flicker with movement and rhythm. The various noises of the early evening echo up to us, vibrating through the air like an ear pressed to a seashell.
“It’s so beautiful from up here,” she says, pressing her lips against her drink and swallowing a small sip. I shift slightly behind her so I can wrap my arms gently around her shoulders.
“Selfishly, I was hoping to blow every date you’ve ever had out of the park,” I say softly against her hair.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s a much easier task than you’d expect,” she says, laughing to herself.
“Why is that?” I ask, curiosity brimming in my tone.
“I’ve always had a difficult time being... intimate with people. Not just physically, but emotionally too. I usually become so anxious that I dread every single touch and each meaningless response.”
I understand exactly what it’s like to have a difficult time connecting to others, even if my issues aren’t necessarily anxiety-related. Her admission coils close to my heart, connecting us on a deeper level than I ever knew.
“Do you ever feel like that with me?” I ask carefully, scared she’ll ask me to move away from her, to pull back from our small embrace, but prepared to do so if that’s what she needs.
“No. I don’t ever feel like that with you for some reason.” She melts against my tense chest. My heart pounds, and I curl around her tighter, pressing her back to my front.
I’m not sure why I don’t explain to her that I know exactly what she means. I also have similar issues with physical intimacy. I’ve always been hesitant to talk about my issues with touch, knowing how easily a weakness can fall into the wrong hands in my line of work. Only a select few know about it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to expand that circle yet.
I hold her instead, brushing my hands up and down her arms to warm her up.
“We can go as slow as you want, Menace,” I reassure her, pressing my nose into her hair. She smells so good, like sweet vanilla and spice. I hope some of her perfume will rub off on my shirt. I’m thinking about how to deduce what scent she wears when she suddenly turns in my arms, drink abandoned on the ledge, and her face pulled tight in a look of concentration.
Then her lips move to my ear.
“Can I try something?”
I’m nodding my head so fast it’s a wonder I don’t strain my neck.
Her face moves in front of mine, brows pinched with focus.
