“There’s nothing silly about you, Holly,” he says, then kisses me softly on the mouth. “And you can interrupt me anytime. But let’s be honest with each other from this point forward.” He kisses me again, so lightly that it’s almost teasing. “No more lies.”
“No more lies,” I repeat, running my hand down his chest, loving the feel of linen, rough and cool beneath my fingers.
He pulls me in closer, grazing my hips with his hands, and I kiss him hard, as the intensity rises between us. He tastes of vanilla and cumin and humid summer nights, and I suddenly know that it will be impossible to get enough of this man.
He turns us both around, lifts me onto the counter. Then his firm hands find their way beneath my silk shirt, and I feel them hot and searching against my back. I let my thighs part, and he steps between them. He rises against me, and I pull him in closer, grabbing his hair into my fist. He slips the silk strap from my shoulder, leans down to run his lips along my collarbone. My freehand finds the top button of his jeans and I tug, which produces a hum deep in his throat.
But then he releases me and steps away, fast. I watch, baffled, as he begins to pace back and forth in the small space between us.
“Since we’ve decided to be honest,” he says, his voice a low groan, “I want nothing more right now than to carry you over to that bed and have my way with you.”
Jesus, God. I want that, too.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. I suck in a long breath, try to calm my raging hormones. Because I have a sneaking suspicion I know what’s coming next.
“But, for better or worse, I endeavor to be a gentleman.” He continues to pace in front of me. “And it’s our first date, and I already feel a bit lechy, having brought you here, which wasn’t my intention, and—”
I slide down from the counter, touch him on the forearm, which stills his pacing. “I get it,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, trying not to worry about whether his hesitation is really about me, trying to remind myself that this man will be in Copenhagen soon, and that the last thing I have room in my life for is complication.
Oh, but Hugh Pridmore is a complication I so very much want to make room for.
CHAPTER 29Luisa
Eli’s room is masculine, neat, simple. The floor is covered in a shag rug, so I kick off my wedges and abandon them by the door before stepping inside.
A cozy, three-person couch is set against a bare wall—not one throw pillow or cuddle blanket in sight. It’s wide enough to fit two bodies, I observe, as a current of lust takes over my imagination.
“No throw pillows here, huh?” I ask, running one index finger over the velvety green fabric, fighting the urge to sink into its plump cushions.
“Not a fan of clutter,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, casually watching me explore his space. He’s also taken off his shoes, stacked them next to mine.
Across the room sits a mahogany desk and chair, with a chest of drawers to one side. A two-month calendar hangs on the wall above it. Pearl’s school deadlines, handwritten appointments, and sticky notes with bill reminders take up most of the space. Beside the desk, tucked into the corner of the room, is an indoor woodstove that has me wishing it were the dead of winter. A set of large double windows provides a view of the backyard and illuminates the room with the faint glow of the patio lights.
The queen-size bed is covered with an Oxford Blue comforter and white pillowcases that match the sheets. My fingertips stroke one of the snug feather pillows, my mind already conjuring the cool sensation of the sheets against my skin.
There’s a lamp on the side table, next to three small potted plants and a stack of books. I set my clutch on the table, thenpick up the books one by one, reading the titles on each cover—Tuesdays with Morrie, The Book of Five Rings, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Vagabond Volume 1.
“What are you thinking right now?” he asks, eyeing me with amusement as I pick up one of the books.
“That you surprise me,” I respond truthfully. “And not many people do.”
I don’t tell him that while he’s been playing at being Tripp, I’ve been cataloging every expression, every posture, every gaze that is only Eli’s. I don’t tell him that I think of him at random times during the day, and that the thought of him invariably makes me smile. I don’t tell him that his scent—a heady mix of musk, spice, and woods—lingering on every textile in the room is making me lightheaded and woozy, like I’m somehow drunk on him.
Eli meets me on the side of the bed and sits on the mattress, drawing me between his legs, hands resting over my hips.
“I can’t remember the last time I was so wrong about someone.” I run my fingers through his hairline, then caress his eyebrows, following the contour of his nose, the curve of his lips. Eli tilts up his head, closes his eyes. “I’m never wrong,” I add quietly.
He takes the palm of my hand in his, kisses it. “That’s one of the things I love most about you,” he says, pulling me onto his lap. He brushes the tips of his fingers over the delicate skin of my upper chest, up my neck, sinking them into my hair, then angling my head down toward his.
“My charming stubbornness,” I whisper, grazing his lips.
“?‘Endearing’ is the word you’re looking for,” he murmurs, plunging our mouths into a kiss to rival every kiss that came before it. It’s achingly unhurried and tender, but also knowing and full of yearning. I want to commit his taste to memory—the minty tingle of his breath on my lips, the hungry lap of his tongue on mine, the fiery intensity rippling through my whole body.
“Can I undress you?” he asks in a breathy voice.
“Please.” My heart beats desperately, compensating for the sudden lack of oxygen and the delicious throbbing climbing upmy thighs and into my lower belly. One half of me wants to take this slow, stretch out the longing, savor every second as if this night was nothing short of an eternity. The other half—a starving, ravenous wild creature—craves a naked Eli, wants to meld his steely body with mine, until the whole universe shatters behind my closed eyelids.
We stand, facing each other. Eli’s hands fall to my waist, and he turns me in place. He sweeps aside my long hair, planting kisses along my shoulder blades as he slowly lowers the zipper of my dress. I close my eyes, dazed with the sensation of his lips skimming across my back. My dress collects in a puddle of gauzy fabric at our bare feet.
