“Oh God, what did I say?” he asks, the strain in his voice evident.
I turn in his arms, his hand sliding from my hip, his leg following as I spin around one eighty, bringing us face-to-face. His hand stays between us, and I fight to keep my eyes up because, holy hot tamale, he is sinfully delicious. It would be so wrong of me to reach out and squeeze one of his biceps, but I can’t stop wanting to.
“Last night you told me I was magic.” I place my hands together prayer style and slide them under my face. “You also said I was the most beautiful woman in the room last night. Even though there was a supermodel in attendance. You were also very drunk, so I’m not sure I believe you.”
“What else?” He blinks, slowly urging me to prattle on.
I clear my scratchy morning throat. “You told me that you find beauty in every part of me, but the first time you met me, you found me annoying.”
He winces, closing his eyes, letting the sting of his words settle between us. “I’m so sorry.” Unclenching his eyes, he pops them open and repeats, “I really am sorry.”
“Don’t be. I admire your honesty, Eli, and to soften the blow, you did tell me that after the night we had dinner, something shifted inside you.” I pause as his face changes into something different: a look of quiet alarm as if he knows what’s coming next. “And after that night, you started having dirty thoughts about me.”
He lifts his hand in the air, slaps his forehead, then drags his hand down his face, making him look likeThe Screampainting I once saw in Norway at the National Museum.
“Then,” I add.
“Oh my God, there’s more?”
“Mm-hm,” I confirm. “Then you proceeded to tell me that you’ve thought about me every day in the shower. I assume you meant you jerked off every morning. Is that what you meant?”
Open-mouthed, he goes to reply, then promptly presses his lips firmly back together again.
This is a lot of fun.
“You then told me about Tia and how she broke your heart all those years ago. You also explained that you haven’t been with another woman since Tia. There was also something else.” I play coy. “Oh, that was it, you have a sick heart, caused by me, apparently, something to do with me almost giving you a cardiac arrest every time I walk into a room, and that your heart might explode.” I bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from pulling a wicked grin. Seeing him squirm like this is both deliciously enjoyable and evil in equal amounts.
“Okay, you can stop now,” he says gruffly.
I pout. “But there’s more.”
“I’ve heard enough.” His scowl grows harder.
“Are you sure?” I don’t miss how his gaze drops to my lips. “I mean, I thought you would like to hear how my heart does the same thing as yours every time I see you or think about you, and it flaps about wilder than a hurricane inside my chest.”
Eli’s eyes widen in disbelief, and I keep going, dropping more truth bombs. “I’m guessing you don’t want to know that I also like you, Eli. A lot. More than I’ve ever liked anyone. In fact, at the risk of sounding juvenile, I have a crush on you and find you ridiculously hot. I’ve also thought about you while using my vibrator.”
His features soften for a beat as if he’s absorbing everything before he snaps back, “Stop talking.” He doesn’t shout, but the slight warning tone is enough to let me know he’s uncomfortable with this conversation. While I, on the other hand, am not. Our unspoken words need to be aired. I heard his, now it’s time he heard mine.
“I’ve also woken up with my hand between my legs more times than I can count, dreaming about you doing things to me, and when I wake up…”
He grunts, cutting me off with a low growl. “Don’t you ever stop talking?”
Persistence is my middle name, so I’m relentless and keep pushing forward. “…I’m disappointed when I realize it’s my hand down my shorts, and not yours. All I’ve dreamed about is what your hands would feel like on my body. Touching my skin.”
“Don’t.” His teeth clench so tightly that his jaw tics once, twice, three times before he lets out an annoyed breath. “Just, just stop,” he stutters.
“Why?” I answer quickly.
He gives me the silent treatment, so I fill the gap.
“Is it because you hate talking about your feelings or that you can’t handle hearing how I feel about you?” I ask, almost pleading to be taken over his knee and spanked. It’s the kind of thing I might enjoy, although I’ve never had it done to me before, so I’m not sure if I would like it.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” His words are raspy and deep, eyes narrowing.
“Why not?”
“Because every time I get something good, it slips right through my fingers.” His confession spills out of his mouth fast and unhinged, and judging by how his eyes pop out of his head, he’s in astonishment from sharing his innermost fears with me.
