Even though that was insane.
He still had his t-shirt on, underneath the jacket—as thin as it was, and as near transparent. She could make out the actual curve of one pectoral muscle beneath, but she paid no attention to that. She paid attention to the picture on the front, instead—a smiling octopus, surrounded by a faded sunset.
“Almost done,” she said, just to break the silence. It had gotten very thick in the last few minutes, and the longer she let it go on for the more it seemed to be building into something else. Something coiled and ready to crush her. If she didn’t do something quick she was going to wind up smothered, or at least inadvisably excited.
She could already feel it starting to blossom between her legs, in this terrible tingly way. Every time she moved, this sensation threatened to get more intense, and that just seemed really bad of her. It was important to cut it off at the pass, but all she could manage was a jittery, jagged finish to this arts-and-crafts project, followed by a blurted, “There. Now you can stand up and leave it behind, like a leathery outline of yourself.”
It didn’t help in the slightest. The moment he stood she knew she’d misjudged. He emerged from that soaked cocoon like a brand-new man, all bare arms and broad shoulders. Of course they’d been broad before, when he’d been inside the jacket. But there was something much rawer and more real about them now. She could make out things through the thin material—jutting, rounded things.
Tempting things, she thought, then quickly pushed the thought away.
She focused instead on the jacket, which also proved to be a mistake. She’d been right about how it would look. It was weird but she had been right. She could actually see the shape of him in the mess of material he’d left behind, and it wasn’t a soothing sight. It made her think of stories about goblin shapeshifters shedding their skin—as though this weren’t the real him anymore.
This was the thing that had taken him over. The real man had dissolved down into that sagging thing on the sofa, and now she was left with the creature. Funny then, that this creature didn’t seem so bad. In fact he was sort of better than the one he’d been when she first encountered him on the rug.
That guy had seemed like a hard-partying probable jerk face.
This guy was sort of awkward and unsure of himself. He kept brushing at his bare forearms, as solid as the rest of him but somehow vulnerable now without their layer of leather. And when he looked at her finally, that same vulnerability was in his gaze. All the silly, weird talk was done, and there was just veiled blue, like something lost at the bottom of the ocean. There were just the words he hadn’t said—Why I did this, why I still want to, why it felt so bad I thought I had to.
She could see it all, because those things were in her too. They made her want to hug him—though she knew what would happen the moment she dared. Of course it was possible that he would talk and talk and talk about himself and never expect a word from her. But it was equally possible that he’d do the opposite.
He’d already done the opposite in so many ways. She’d thought he’d be arrogant and aggressive; he wasn’t. She’d thought he’d be bemused by the weirdest thing she could say; he hadn’t been. There was a chance he’d listen.
But all that did was make her realize something, for the first time...
She was absolutely terrified to say anything about herself at all.
Chapter Three
She woke with a start at some time past dawn, in the cold gray light that usually heralded the day’s arrival. From where she was laid she could see the mist pressing its fingers against the broad living room windows, faint here but heavy farther back. The ocean was pretty much concealed in a way that always disturbed her—as though she’d somehow found herself in some strange hell, and nothing beyond her front door actually existed.
The movie star she was lying on didn’t really help matters, in that regard. He seemed like the most unreal thing of all. Of course, rationally she knew that was his thigh she was feeling beneath her cheek. She could see his enormous knee out of the corner of one eye, and that salt-sweet smell of him was very clear, here. But she couldn’t really process it.
Until she realized what had yanked her out of sleep.
She shouldn’t have done it. She’d meant to stay awake and keep talking to him all night, in case something unthinkable happened. Then somehow...somehow she must have started sinking on the couch—and maybe he’d settled her in this position out of kindness, without thinking what that might mean for him.
Hell, maybe hehadthought about what that might mean for him. He’d encouraged her to lapse into unconsciousness so he could too—only he didn’t want to simply sleep.He wanted to die, she thought,you’ve let him die, and Jesus, the panic that followed was near unbearable. It was just like before, in that terrible doctor’s office. She could almost hear him telling her that she had to calm down, she had to stop thinking about people dying all the time.It’s not healthy, he said, in her head.
But right now she didn’t care if it was or not. She just wanted him to be alive, and if he wasn’t, by God, she was going to punch him until he returned. She sat up in a fumble, ignoring the horrid stiffness of her limbs and the weird pain that shot through her bad arm. She’d slept on it when she shouldn’t have, but what did that matter?
His eyes were closed. And in this ghostly gray light he looked so lifeless, so stiff and pale. It made her almost afraid to touch him, but fear forced her the rest of the way. It pushed her until she’d laid her hand on the side of his face, and oh she thanked the heavens to find it warm to the touch.
Not hugely so, but it was enough to give her back some hope. She was able to swallow again, around the salty, great lump in her throat. And she could breathe instead of panting, as she pondered how to next deal with this. She had to wake him up, but he wasn’t responding to gentle taps and tentative shakes.
What came after gentle taps and tentative shakes?
Shoving his ass until theNational Enquirertakes a picture, her mind offered, but only because her mind was a jerk. She had been forced into touching his ass. She hadn’twantedto do it. And she didn’t want to spiral the way she was currently doing, either.
She didn’t know when she’d grabbed his right arm, yet it was happening. It was more than happening. Her nails were kind of digging into him, and she was breathing all hard and funny. Somewhere in the middle of it all she started shouting his name, so loud and frantic she barely noticed when he finally came around.
He had to grab her arms right back, and tell her,Hey, hey, I’m okay.
It didn’t stop her making a fool of herself, however. The second those blue eyes met hers—so full of earnest concern and other amazing things—she just reacted. She smacked her body into his and made a vise of her arms around his shoulders. She hugged him the way people who’d known each other for years hugged each other—even though they’d only met the night before.
And even more appalling...he was a fucking movie star.
She was randomly hugging a movie star, like some fannish imbecile. He wouldn’t understand that she had these sudden panics, or that she worried all the time about everyone dying. He’d just think she was an insane groupie, or something.
