Instinctively, I try to hide my throat from his gaze. There’s no wound there anymore, but it feels too vulnerable to let him see where someone hurt me.
Did he ask me here to check if I’m alright?
He steps closer, close enough for me to feel his heat, to feel the warmth of his light. Then he reaches out quickly, and then suddenly slows before he makes contact, as if he can barely restrain himself. As if he needs to feel me to be sure that I’m okay, but he’s afraid of how I’ll respond.
I look into his eyes, and there’s something so vulnerable there, so worried, that I lift my chin, granting him access.
Gently, with an almost unbearable delicateness, he brushes his fingers on my skin.
His touch is different than Soren’s. Soren’s touch was familiar and comforting, like the embrace of an old friend. This touch lingers on me, warm and intoxicating, the feeling of it new and rare and sacred. It tugs at me, pulling me into him.
My lips part involuntarily. A droplet of water from my damp hair runs down my neck and onto my chest. I can feel his eyes follow it, and I want him to keep looking. I want him to watch as the water traces the curve of my breast before disappearing beneath my evening gown. I want him to wonder where it is when it doesn’t soak into the thin linen fabric.
I want him to envy it.
He exhales softly, and I know his eyes have done as I hoped without even looking up. “Her work was good,” he says, his voice low and sultry, “but there’s still some bruising. Here.” He wraps his arm around me and rests his hand on the small of my back, his fingers slipping into the gap between the buttons.
I gasp as his fingertips graze a bruise just below my waist. My skin tingles painlessly as their heat repairs the damaged blood vessels. In moments, the bruise is gone so completely that my only indication it was there at all is the lingering touch of his hand.
I want more.
Am I even pretending now? Do I even need to remind myself that it’s good to give in to this feeling? Or have I somehow managed it without any convincing?
I still don’t know how much of anything that’s happening is real, but I would let him touch me, I realize. He could slide his hand down my back and pull me to him. He could angle my chin up until my eyes meet his, and he could kiss me. Soft, at first. Tentative.
And then harder, wilder, until I’m breathless and gasping for him.
Can he feel that?
I wait for a moment, but he doesn’t move. He’s as frozen as I am, transfixed by the contact of his skin on mine. When I look into his eyes, I see another war being waged there. He wantsthis—heneedsit—but…what? I can’t tell what holds him back. Maybe he’s afraid? Maybe he’s uncertain if this is a step too far.
Maybe the line between real and pretend is getting a little too hard for him to find.
I know the feeling.
I take a step back, and he pulls his hand from my dress. “Thank you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m alright now.”
I turn to leave. I can’t be in here anymore; my feelings are overwhelming my thoughts. I’m not sure if they even are my feelings, or if they’re just the desires of my body.
I feel lightheaded. I feel a heaviness in my core that desperately wants to drag me down with it.
I feel like I should wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.
I feel like I should run out the door and never so much as look at him again.
I take a step forward, a step away from him, a step towards the door and my sanity.
And he grabs my arm.
It takes every single ounce of my strength to turn around slowly. To not throw myself into his embrace. To wait and hear what he has to say before losing myself in him entirely.
“Wait. Don’t go.”
I stare at him, unblinking.
I can’t move. I can’t even breathe.
His hand is still on my arm. He rubs a gentle circle there with his fingertips, then they still as he thinks better of it. The war in his mind has spread to his hands, to his body.
