“No one feeding you?” Andy peers up over his loaded fork, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, as Carmen regales us of tales from today’s rehearsal. It’s a fleeting look but one that sears, and I flick my gaze down to my plate, feeling flustered.
I try to leave after dinner, but Carmen’s hand is practicallysuper glued to mine as she drags me back to the sofa and finds a movie for all three of us to enjoy. It’s horrible—something about zombies and werewolves, but lazily coded as a tale of prejudice for children. She holds my hand the entire time, and maybe I hold hers.
Andrew’s on one side; I’m on the other. We’ve only made it forty-five minutes in before her soft snores vibrate between us and he carefully lifts her up, seamlessly transferring her to her bed. I stay on the couch, watching from a distance as he lingers in her doorway before softly shutting the door.
When he collapses back on the couch, head falling back, I feel my pulse across my skin. Like before it was thumping in the background, muffled, but now that we’re alone it knows it can beat recklessly.
“That was impressive,” I admit, giving him a sidelong glance as I unwind my bun, enjoying the freedom.
He tracks the movement. “She’s famous for falling asleep mid movie.”
“She’s lucky,” I tell him, meaning it. Andy’s brows furrow at my random show of sincerity, so I add: “Pretty sure Grant’s never even considered bringin’ me a pillow.”
His huffed laughter is muted as he looks at the ground. “She loved having you here.”
“But didyoulove havin’ me here?” I joke, my silent insecurity weaving through my ordinary defenses, just as I guess he has, and I wonder when I started to care about what he thought at all.
Andy just blinks over at me, swallows, strong throat bobbing as something pained flits across his expression.
“Right,” I say, feeling flayed raw for no good reason. “Well, I really should be goin’.”
I push up from the edge of the sofa and throw my bag over my shoulder, evading his gaze, my pulse erratic in my throat. Ireplay the moment he came home, try to dissect the moment I should’ve left; I scour dinner at the table and wonder if I shouldn’t have pried Carmen’s hand from mine and let them be. It’s no use though, because I’m not good at telling about anything anymore. That sense has been frayed, completely.
I reach the door and he reaches me, and it’s his lips against my hair that I swear I feel, the closest we’ve ever been. Teeth sinking into my cheek, I blink into the beveled wood, fighting the way every inch of my skin is like a live wire, my heart a loud, rapturous thud, high in my chest, almost to my throat.
“Of course, I did,” he finally says, softly, his hands bracing themselves above my head, against the door frame, like he couldn’t stand otherwise, and I spin around.
“But?” I ask, lifting my face to him. The roguish charm that drew me to him months ago isn’t roguish at all; directed at me, it’s an intensity that burns just beneath my skin, that says he’s mine for the taking if I want it. His eyes pin me, swim with lust, and I feelvindicated. Feel less crazy but still endlessly vulnerable as I give up pretending I’m not dying for him to kiss me senseless. That I don’t want him to drown me the way I haven’t drowned since my fingers gave out and my creativity washed away.
My lips part, my gaze drops to his full mouth, and I wait for him to crash into me. I expect it to be a rush, for him to scorch me, overwhelm me like I’d hoped—but he doesn’t. One hand finds my waist, grips me with throat clawing tenderness, and he presses me into the door. His other hand lands just beneath my collar bone and travels up my neck, his thumb skating over the edge of my jaw slowly. So slowly that I tremble.
He just shakes his head, watching me, touching me. My breaths are a small series of heaves that I can’t seem to keep under control; I earnestly try, sinking my teeth into my lip like the pain will bring a sense of calm, but it doesn’t.
I want him to shut his eyes, eat me alive, and move on. I want to move on.
Instead, his thumb frees my lip from my hold, before heavily, greedily, kissing me. He isn’t interested in eating me alive; he’s savoring me. It isn’t something anyone does—savor me—and the realization has me falling into his touch. His grip on me deepens, holding me close to him as his weight presses us both into the door. His lips are feather soft on mine, every brush of them like oxygen on a fire. I want to feel them down my neck, across my skin, under my skin.
And it dawns on me that I’ve craved this. Being touched in a way that isn’t a claiming. The glide of his tongue against mine is so unrushed, goosebumps erupt across my skin as desire pulls tears into my waterline. I gasp against his parted lips, breathe into the feel of his fingers gently tracing the outline of my bra, of their sudden heat against the skin beneath my sweater. He presses warm, open mouthed kisses along my neck, and I shudder, pressing the length of my body against him like all of him at once might blunt this feeling.
Andy’s fingers rake through my nape, tangle in my hair. His teeth scrape down the length of my neck before his lips find mine again so he can taste me—so I can really taste him. I groan, pushing my chest against his as I deepen the angle, wrapping my hand around his neck while the other rushes up the hard terrain beneath his sweater.
“Sloane,” he murmurs, against my mouth, the sound of him wanting me so plainly cracking something in my chest and I yank myself away, shocked. Sore between the ribs.
I reach behind me and turn the knob, relieved at the cool rush of air. He doesn’t get a word out before I turn and run away.
20
Sloane
Pots of apple and cinnamon, clove and star anise, still simmer in the kitchen under Anders’s watchful eye, and the house is full of people—so full that no one’s noticed the way I keep siphoning Beau’s best whiskey from the ledge in his office. Except maybe Grant, whose watchful gaze keeps finding me.
We haven’t talked since our blow up, other than exchanging a few words when completely necessary, mostly to fool our parents, trick them into thinking we’re good. It’s not working.
I watch Grant shake his head, his eyes narrow with disapproval while he moves his attention back to the conversation he’s in with the suits who work for Beau.
“Sloane?” Brennan, whose eyes are still a muddy grey color, just like they were in high school, says beneath me, and I remember I’m still collapsed in his lap. “You were saying?”
“Daydreamin’,” I giggle. His brows furrow at me in conspiracy, and I know he’s already jumped to the conclusion I’m still trying to conclude. I sneak another sip of whiskey from the crystal Evie puts out for use on special occasions likethis, and sink a little deeper in him. He’s not nearly as solid as I imagine someone like Andy is. He’s sort of a shell of a solid person, I notice as I let him hold the brunt of me. It doesn’t even feel particularly nice, but I do it anyway, hoping it’s all just muscle memory and that I’m out of practice.
