Gray trousers cuffed at the ankles.
Glasses.
Hair caught somewhere between
‘I tried’and‘I gave up.’
He looks like the kind of guy who carries a Charles Dickens book in his pocket on the train in, then whispers things likeIwanna eat your pussy so fuckin’ bad it’s killin’ meinto your mouth.
His gaze rips through the air and doesn’t miss, drops right into me.
A long, aching stare above a furious jaw that says—fuck, I missed you.
As if he wasn’t okay until this second,
and he’s not sure he’s okay now, either.
Then I’m in front of him,
standing close,
a foot or two apart.
His eyes sweep down?—
face, lips, throat, chest?—
Back to mine, not knowing how much time we have together this time, so he’s taking as much of me in as he can.
My fingers find his pockets, sinking halfway in before realizing I reached for them.
My hands bury, roots digging in?—
soul memory, or madness, or both.
And then he exhales, one long, ragged breath he’s been holding since the gala.
He wraps a hand around the back of my neck and moves in closer,
leaning his forehead to mine.
His thumb brushes behind my ear.
“So who’s this dress for?” he says, eyes drifting down between us, then up to my mouth. “You show up like this. Fingers in my pockets. Now I’m s’posed to walk away and not think about who gets you after?”
My fingers start slipping away.
He catches my wrist, stopping me.
“Did I say you could let go?”
Jaw tight, his fingertips slide down the back of my neck.
“Keep ‘em on me, Sonny.”
My fingers curl deeper into his pockets,
and I tug on him.
