“You’re still talking.”
“Like, did you have to do a bunch of takes? Or were you just standing around in the shower stream, all that steam billowing around you? And did they have you rinse off and start again? Or was it just one constant lather?”
The next thing I know, one of those big hands I was admiring moments ago comes up and gently covers my mouth. I stare at him and he stares back.
“If I remove my hand, will you stop talking?”
I should nod. But where’s the fun in that? Before I can talk myself out of it, I push my tongue out. His hand retreats instantly.
“Did you just lick me?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you? Twelve?”
“No.” I try to sound sheepish, which is difficult given how pleased I am with myself. “But I was twelve the first time I saw that commercial.”
“Brat,” he groans and covers his face again with the very hand I just tasted.
Ohhhh. I think I like that nickname more than Boss. Myface feels hot, and I know it’s not from laughter. It’s something else. Something I haven’t let myself feel in a very long time.
There’s a current between us tonight that wasn’t there before. Playful. Charged. Flirty? I must be imagining it. Sam keeps planting the idea in my head that Arthur might be interested, but Sam’s twelve. I’m pretty sure relationships are an abstract concept to him, not a reality.
Still…it’s not like I haven’t caught the way Arthur looks at me sometimes. Those quick, appreciative glances during training. Even tonight, when I’m ridiculous in this onesie, I swear his eyes lingered. Why didn’t I wear something better? Why didn’t I at least change the second he showed up?
Arthur turns his focus back to the movie, but I can’t stop watching him. I sink deeper into the cushions, hyperaware of his presence beside me, of the space between us that suddenly feels too small. His shirt sleeves are pushed up, forearms exposed, veins and muscle shifting every time he moves. Have I ever been attracted to forearms before? Because I am now.
God. I am beyond attracted to him. Dizzyingly. Disastrously. Until now, it was easy enough to ignore.
But now? He’s here. In my home. On my couch. The lights are low, shadows softening the edges of the room. The movie might be about dinosaurs tearing people apart, but the mood is warm, intimate. Cozy enough to feel dangerous.
Arthur chuckles quietly when Samuel L. Jackson delivers the iconic “hold onto your butts” line, and dammit it just makes me even more attracted to him.
I squirm with restless energy, pulling my legs up onto the couch to sit cross-legged. The shift brings my knee against his thigh, the unexpected contact startling us both.
“Sorry,” I murmur, jerking my leg away.
“It’s fine. I can move over?—”
“No, don’t.” The words come out too quickly. My handfollows them before I can stop myself, landing on his leg in reassurance. It should be nothing. A fleeting touch to let him know I don’t want him to move away. But my palm lands higher than I intended, warm against the solid muscle of his thigh. And it lingers.
My breath catches. My eyes lock on my own hand, traitorous and unmoving, and suddenly the room feels too quiet, despite the mayhem on my television.
When I force myself to look up, Arthur is already watching me. His eyes hold mine, steady, unflinching, and I know—I haven’t been imagining it. He wants this. Wants me. Maybe as much as I want him. Maybe more.
His gaze flicks down to my mouth. His throat works as he swallows. “Elliot…”
I don’t know what I’m doing. Slowly, deliberately, I lean toward him. He doesn’t move away. Inch by inch, I close the gap, until his breath grazes my lips and my eyes flutter half-shut in anticipation.
But Arthur moves quicker than I’ve ever seen before. He stands and steps away, out of reach. By the time my eyes refocus, he’s retreating, his chest rising and falling like he’s just finished a round of difficult exercises.
“This isn’t right.” His hand scrubs over his face, rough, frustrated. “This—” He gestures sharply between us. “This can’t happen. Not like this.”
I go from hot to ice cold in seconds as humiliation steals the air from my lungs. I freeze, too embarrassed to move or speak.
“I should go,” he says, voice rough.
Say something. Say you didn’t mean to. That you weren’t about to kiss him. You just leaned in to whisper something and miscalculated. Lie. Anything.
