“I believe you.”
“And I meaneverydefinition of sex. No hand stuff. No mouth stuff. No loopholes.”
“Well, stop talking about holes, then. You’re getting me all worked up.”
The laugh she was suppressing finally escaped, the sound sending a thrill through him. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He glanced over at her after he said it, almost without meaning to. Her cheeks were tinged pink, though it was just as likely from the wine as from anything else. She took another sip, holding his gaze.
He turned back to the pan that had held the apple cake and scrubbed vigorously. “Who saidIwant to have sex withyou,anyway? Kind of full of yourself.”
She still didn’t say anything, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw her drain her glass and slide off the counter. He tensed as she approached him from behind, feeling the nudge of her feet on either side of his, followed by the soft press of her breasts against his back. To his dismay, he fumbled with the dish in his hands, and the small, hot exhale of her laugh on his neck made every hair on his body stand on end.
Resentment rushed through him at how easily she could get a reaction out of him, calling his bluff—joke or not—withoutdoing much of anything. But mostly he was just grateful that he was facing away from her, the lower half of his body blocked by the sink, hiding the full, humiliating extent of his innate response to her.
When she rested her chin lightly in the spot between his neck and shoulder, just for a second, it occurred to him that maybe her boundary was less of a boundary and more of a dare in disguise.
He wouldn’t cross it without her permission, obviously, but there was plenty of leeway in the terms she’d laid down. Earlier, he’d peeked into the house’s one and only bedroom and was suddenly overtaken by the vivid image of the two of them tangled in those sheets, dry humping like overheated teenagers, slowly stripping off one piece of clothing at a time in an attempt to hold out as long as they could, each waiting for the other one to break first.
It must have been a sign of how hard up he was after half a year of celibacy that his hands were shaking at the thought.
If she noticed, she didn’t point it out. She just slowly reached around him, placing her wineglass in the almost empty sink.
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” she murmured into his neck.
As he watched her disappear down the hall toward the bathroom, another, more uncomfortable idea settled over him: maybe he was wrong. Maybe she didn’t deserve the manipulative seductress label he’d slapped her with—then, or now. Maybe, like Dr. Deena had suggested, it was another way to absolve himself of his own responsibility in their endless push and pull.
Maybe she was just as confused as he was about what they were to each other: unsure what she wanted, what was attainable, what was worth hoping for.
Maybe they both cloaked all that uncertainty in sex as adistraction, afraid of what they’d find if they bothered to look beneath the surface of their physical connection.
And as he heard the shower start to run, he wondered if maybe it wouldn’t have been the smart move for him to go back to the hotel after all.
…
Lilah took her time getting ready after her shower. As she dressed in the sweats and tank top she’d packed for herself, she tried to figure out how her solo getaway had turned into a pseudo–couples retreat. He’d given her an opening to tell him to fuck off and leave her alone, and she probably still could, if she wanted to. But she realized that at some point over the past few months, disturbingly and without permission, he’d snuck his way back onto the very short list of people whose company she preferred to being alone.
On her way out of the bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her shirt was thin enough that she considered putting her bra back on, but the idea of torturing herself with underwire for a second longer was less appealing than Shane’s inevitable teasing about it. Besides, it wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with the concept of her nipples. He’d just have to deal with it.
When she padded into the living room, Shane was on the couch, flipping through the channels. His brow furrowed as soon as his gaze fell on her, and she braced herself for what was coming next.
“Are those my pants?”
Fuck. She’d hoped he wouldn’t remember.
“I don’t think so,” she lied.
He pushed himself off the couch and strode over to her, reaching down and tugging playfully at the drawstring. “Yes,they are. They’re missing the little metal thing here. I thought they were gone for good.”
“Well…do I have to give them back? They’re my favorite pair.” The hint of a whine crept into her voice—mostly out of embarrassment that she’d been caught.
“Maybe just for tonight. I don’t have anything to sleep in.”
“What about your underwear?”
“If that’s what you’d prefer,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She knew he didn’t mean right that second, but she was annoyed enough that she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and stripped them off where she stood. He took them from her, his gaze locked on hers without straying downward.
