gaze pressing into me,
holding me there.
“Christ, you scared the hell outta me.” He rubs his chest, a small smile tugging at him. “Swear t’God, thought I was alone back here.”
His voice...
I want to wrap up in its warmth, sip it slow,
let it melt in my mouth.
I go to speak…
but choke on the words instead.
He’s standing above me,
looking down at me,
and normally,
I’d flinch with anyone standing over me.
I’d push back, get small, or shut it all down.
But I don’t feel boxed in by him.
I feel… held in place.
“Sorry. I’m…” I start to say,
when a laugh slips out.
Then all the words slip, fall, flee…
“I’m… I’m actually nervous, for once. Wow.”
His brows slant upward as he pulls his earbuds free.
I squint. “I don’t usually… talk. To people,” I admit, and his brows jump. “I mean, I watch them. Constantly. Make up backstories. Fake lives. Usually they’re murderers, secretly having affairs, or chronically bad at sex.”
Fuck.
Okay. Yeah. That was overkill.
Could’ve just sipped my coffee and said?—
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
like a normal, horny-hearted bitch with an addiction.
But sure, let’s be a fucking weirdo.
Though, when I look up at him again,
he'ssmilingwith every inch of him.
I try swallowing down the rest of these words,
