“What if I can’t—”
Determination lined his face. “You will.”
He made it sound so easy. “But if I can’t?”
“Then we’ll try something else. Now come closer.” He crooked a finger. I inched a step. “Next worry.”
“I haven’t shaved.”
“Neither have I.”
I laughed, the sound small, puffy. “That’s not the same and you know it.”
“To me it is. And fuck any man who tells you differently.” I watched his face as he spoke, trying to tell if he truly meant it. “You’re a grown fucking woman. Hair or no hair, I’m going to lose my mind all the same. Okay?”
Okay. “What if I—”
He cut me off. “Closer.” We were bartering, I realised. My worries for proximity.
My next step brought me to the edge of the sofa.
He tracked me like a fox might a rabbit. With intensity. Undivided focus. My skin tingled the way it did when I wasn’t looking at him, when I swore I could feel him watching me from across the room.
He held out a hand. For a second I thought he was reaching for me, but he snagged the box instead. Tearing open the cardboard, not even bothering with the little tab, then he threw the remains over his shoulder. It was so un-Alistair. His intention was clear.You’re not returning this.
The Rosebud looked ridiculously small in his hand. He flipped it over with expertise I didn’t dare question, and flicked the switch. A low buzzing filled the room and the petal made a small lapping motion.
We both groaned, the sounds melding together, though vastly different in nature. He looked hungry. Starving. While I was fighting the urge to bury my burning cheeks in my hands.
“I’ve been dreaming of this since the day I opened it,” he said. “Imagining you on the other side of that wall, flicking it over your clit, biting into your pillow as you quietly come.”
I couldn’t answer, literally dumbstruck.
He might be lying. Men lied all the time.
But my gut said no. That admitting this long-held attraction came at a cost to him. One he was willing to pay.
He pressed his thumb over the petal. “One more worry, Isla. Tell me, then come here.”
This was the most embarrassing one of all. Yet he’d been honest with me.
I pressed my thighs together and didn’t look at him as I said, “I want to turn the light off.”
“Why?” The question was hard.
“I’m worried that my – that I won’t look good to you.”
He reached out, quick as lightning, and snagged the end of my T-shirt. Using it as a rope to drag me closer until his knees pressed against my thighs.
“Your tits are fucking glorious.”
“You haven’t seen them yet.” After breastfeeding, they weren’t as full as they’d been before. Cameron had made a joke once, that if we had another baby, we should bottle-feed them becauseyour tits will look like a tennis ball in a pillowcase.
I’d laughed after he said it. A surprised noise that sounded like it had been slapped out of me. When I’d climbed out the shower that night, I’d studied myself in the bathroom mirror, pulling back the loosened skin with my fingers like I could stick it in place and turn the clock back two years.
“Don’t need to. I’ve seen the curves of them. Full and soft. They’re going to feel amazing in my hands.” He hooked a finger beneath my T-shirt. “They’d look amazing with my cum all over them too.”
My breath caught.
