He hardly knows Jess. He didn’t know she existed a few months ago. And now just is not the right time for a girlfriend. Thebookis the thing. Getting his anxiety under control is theotherthing. His next girlfriend deserves better than his messed-up self.
He rehearses these arguments in his mind, as he has many times. But all the other times, Jess has not been standing in front of him, pink in her cheeks, gently humming an unrecognisable tune as she stirs what smells like a very pleasurable drink. Perhaps that’s why, this time, it doesn’t seem to be working. He studies the curve from her neck to her shoulder, the delicate gold chain around her neck, its clasp slipping further and further round.
And there it is, his excuse to touch her.
He moves towards her. She stops humming. He slides his finger under the gold chain at the back of her neck. Her skin – so soft. Her hair – so shiny.
She turns to him, eager, as if she has been waiting for him to do exactly this. As if to say,What took you so long?Her pupils are wide, and he reads determination in them, mirroring his own.
Later, they will argue about who leaned forwards first, who kissed whom.
But right now, it doesn’t matter. All that matters in the moment is lips brushing together, tongues finding each other, teeth tingling as they awkwardly meet.
And heat, so much heat.
And then – ‘Stop,’ she says, pulling away. and his heart drops into the pit of his stomach until she tells him why. ‘The chocolate is going to burn.’
‘Let it,’ he says, bumping her forehead with his, beckoning her in again.
‘It’s Whittard’s chocolate,’ she says, laughing against him. ‘One does not let Whittard’s chocolate burn.’
He groans (inwardly? Outwardly? Who can say?) but does not argue. She turns back to the stove, to the stirring. He slips his arms around her waist and she leans back into him. Emboldened, he kisses her shoulder, her neck.
She sighs against him. He thinks he might feel her trembling the tiniest bit.
And then at last, at long last, the hot chocolate is ready.
‘You’re going to have to let go of me so I can pour this,’ she says softly, a smile in her voice. He reluctantly does, and he waits.
He waits interminably, it seems, though it is probably only ten seconds. She turns off the stove. Pours the hot chocolate from the saucepan into the mugs, sets them on the coffee table.
‘Where were we?’ he says, his arms around her again.
‘Here,’ she says, looping her own arms around his neck. Drawing him close, up against her. He holds hisbreath, vulnerable: in doing this, she is going to know how much he wants her. But if the moans in her throat as he kisses her are any indication, she wants him just as much.
‘The hot chocolate,’ she says, when they come up for air.
He has to laugh. ‘You’re obsessed with that stuff,’ he says.
‘Have a sip,’ she says. ‘You will be too.’
Reluctantly, he pulls away. Takes her hand, leads her to the sofa, picks up his mug. Inhales, as he has done so often at wine tastings. Then he takes a sip.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘That tastes—’
‘Like an orgasm in a mug?’ she says.
The word itself makes him groan.
‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘That’s not fair.’
She looks at him, the picture of innocence. ‘Not fair how?’
‘Because …’
How to put this delicately? Romantically? Or at the very least, not smarmily?
‘Because you’re making me jealous of hot chocolate, which is an odd position to be in.’
