“Say something boring,” she whispers, and it sounds like a dare.
“Your invite copy is perfect,” I say.
She snorts, breath against my jaw. “I draft a milliontimes.”
“You nailed it,” I say
Her thumb drags once over the edge of my collar. “Roberto.”
My name in her mouth undoes me more than it should. I take her hand again, turn it, press my mouth to the inside of her wrist. Soft. Brief.
She inhales like she wasn’t expecting heat from so small a touch. Her head tips back against the wall, eyes closing for a second. When they open again, they are very blue and very clear.
“That helped,” she says, breathy but certain.
“Good.” I keep her hand, thumb warm over her pulse. “We can keep doing what helps.”
She nods, slowly. “Okay.”
Another small shudder moves through the car, a little reminder of where we are. Neither of us moves away.
“What else helps?” I ask.
“Talk,” she says, and then she adds, honest, “and that.”
“Noted.” I tuck another stray hair behind her ear. “Talk first.”
“Talk,” she repeats, smiling because we both hear the lie. “What do you want to know?”
“What would you do right now if the doors opened and you weren’t stuck with me anymore?”
She thinks a beat. “I’d go home. I’d take my makeup off. I’d stand in a hot shower until my brain stopped buzzing. Then I’d get into bed and wish—” She stops.
“Finish it,” I say.
“—wish I’d been braver,” she says, and it’s barely there.
“You’re brave now,” I say.
She holds my eyes. “I don’t feel brave.”
I angle closer, slow enough to be very obvious about my intentions, and give her every chance to choose a different ending. She lifts her chin the smallest amount. Her hand still rests on my tie.
“Rules,” I say, reminding myself more than her. “I have a lot of rules.”
“Break one,” she whispers.
I lean in. Not fast. Not hungry.
Her warm breath meets mine first. My mouth pauses a whisper from hers. I feel the yes coming off her without hearing it.
The fan hums. The light hums. The car is still. My heartbeat is not.
“Olivia,” I say.
“Roberto,” she answers, and that is the last permissionI need.
The kiss is the barest touch. A testing. Her lips are soft, slightly parted. I press a little firmer, a slow close of mouths, no hurry at all. She makes a small, hungry sound that I feel everywhere. Her free hand comes to my shoulder, fingers tightening around the fabric, holding on.
