“ThinkThe Lost BoysmeetsMoonstruckmeetsSlacker.”
“I honestly don’t know what that means, but I would love to read it, if you want me to.”
“Of course I want you to.”
We’re at the farthest end of the stacks now, crowded against the wall. He turns to face me. Slowly, he puts my books down on the floor, freeing himself up for me. With one more step, I wrap my arms around his waist and press my nose against his shirt, and he encircles my shoulders in his lean, strong arms. All those movements happen at the same time, a bow tying itself.
We hold each other like that for a moment, and then I tilt my head back to look up into his face.
“If you read my screenplay, can I see some of your photographs?” he asks.
“What do you want to see?”
“Anything you make, I want to see.”
“OK. Deal.”
His hand reaches up to cup my face, the tips of his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck again. He rubs his thumb against my bottom lip. Once, I readinCosmothat if a man keeps looking at your mouth, it means he wants to kiss you. What does it mean, then, if he presses the pad of his thumb between your lips? What does it mean when you close your lips around his thumb and take it into your mouth? When you look up into his face and the glassy look in his eyes makes everything inside you coil tightly, begging to be teased and released?
He pulls his thumb out of my mouth with a wetpop. The sound is audible and filthy inside the quiet room.
His eyes scan between mine, seeking something—something more. Of me.
When he speaks, his voice is low. “Should we go to dinner?”
I forgot we’d planned to eat at Cafe Mogador—an East Village institution that Reid absolutely needs to go to before he leaves—and that, up until three minutes ago, I was really looking forward to introducing him to the stunning beauty of their hot, crispy falafel.
But that was before I knew what his skin tastes like. Before I knew how he looks at me when I have him in my mouth.
“Let’s not go to dinner,” I say.
His hands drop to my chin, my neck, my shoulders. I know he’s taking his time with me, making sure I feel secure, but if he doesn’t kiss me right now, I think that I will die.
Finally, I get his lips when they graze behind my ear—soft and full, with the barest press of teeth.
I feel his breath skate down my neck. “Deal,” he says.
IV
My apartment is only a fifteen-minute walk from the bookstore, but each block feels agonizingly long. I’m hyperaware of the way Reid’s body navigates space, the relative distance between his and mine. With each passing crosswalk, I find myself inching closer to him; when we reach First Avenue, his fingers entwine with mine.
By the time we make it up the three flights to my place, my skin feels like it’s on fire, like the stroke of his thumb against the back of my hand might launch me into space.
Nisha is out, so I lead him directly into my bedroom and shut the door all the way. The backs of my legs press against my bed, and I wait for Reid to finally use the weight of his body against mine. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just leans against the door, hands behind his back. His eyes rake over me. I wonder what he sees there—the quickening rise and fall of my chest, a wild glint in my expression? The corner of his mouth twists into a smile. It’s the cockiest he’s ever looked. Heat pools and aches between my legs.
“Come here,” I say, quietly.
He runs a hand down his face, letting it come to rest on his chin. “No.” The grit in his voice is the only indicationthat his control might not be as tethered as it seems. “You come to me.”
I cross my arms, unsure of how to navigate this demand. “Why?”
“Because if I lay you down on that bed,” he says, each word deliberate, “I’m going to fuck you.”
My throat catches on a sound halfway between laughter and disbelief. “Reid,” I say, carefully. “That’s exactly what I want you to do.”
He clasps his hands behind his back again, and he shakes his head, like I’m not getting something. “If that happens right now, I’m... I want to take my time and enjoy this.” He blows out a breath. “Just come here. Please.”
When I step in front of him, he immediately drops to his knees, and his hands brace gently behind my legs. I want to ask him what he’s doing—no one has ever handled me this way—but I close my eyes and trust him instead. Trust the way my body responds to his movements, how my hands lift to his hair, running through the thick strands, tugging at them gently.He likes that, I think, judging from the satisfied sound that escapes from his throat. He slides the straps of my dress down my shoulders, one at a time, then wriggles the dress down over my hips and onto the floor.
