“Okay, okay.” He twists his wrists around so that he’s the one gripping me. He pulls himself up, and the force of it makes me stumble a bit toward him. We’re standing so close to each other now, the blue light dancing over both our faces, and he hasn’t released my wrists. Once again, all I can think about is how near he is. The gap between our bodies is so small, so infinitely closable. So treacherous, really, given how much I’ve had to drink and how much I wanted to touch him earlier tonight, how much I’m starting to realize I want to touch him all the time. The light is casting a strange vibe over the whole thing, like we’re two lovers in some French arthouse movie. And now, in his casually disheveled state, he’s even more Clooneyesque.
I have to say something smart before I do something stupid. “I can’t believe you stayed up playing video games like a little boy.”
He laughs, and I can see it in the vibrations of his throat, his chest, feel it in the fingers still gently curled around my wrists. “Absolutely rumbled, Stripes. And now it’s bedtime. But first…” He turns my wrist over in his hands and with swift, gentle fingers, unclasps the bracelet. He curls it in my open palm and bends toward me and I freeze, except for my heart, which is beating so wildly I’m sure he can see it pound through my skin. His stubble rasps against my face as he presses his lips to my cheek—something he’s never done before. “Good night.”
The voice that answers back is claggy and pitiful, and I would laugh if I weren’t still mostly paralyzed. “Yeah, good night, mate. See you tomorrow.”
He walks toward the bedrooms, but as the darkness of the hallway envelops him, he turns around. “Hey, Abby: Whoever he is, he’s really, really lucky.”
Before I can say anything in response, he’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When it does finally happen,it happens quickly. I smell him first: I’m at the kitchen counter in my robe, finishing my coffee and noodling around on my phone, when I catch a whiff of cologne, masculine and sandalwood-y. Then I feel him: his hands gently stroking my arms, his chin nestling into the crook where my neck meets my shoulder, his chest firm against my back. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him, the fragrance, the heat still on his body, skin smooth from his shower.
“Good morning, darling,” Lachlan murmurs into my ear, and a brief flash of surprise is quickly overtaken by the most intense arousal I can recall, a powerful force that almost knocks the breath out of me.
My body springs to attention under his touch, and I raise a tentative hand to cup his face. It’s warm under my fingers, the curve of his jaw somehow familiar, though I can’t remember ever having the pleasure of this caress before. “Good morning to you.”
He smiles and kisses my palm and it’s like we’ve been doing this forever, like there’s nothing more natural than him rotating the bar stool around and kissing me full on the lips. And oh, God, what a kiss. It’s everything I hoped it would be: soft and scratchy,confident and curious. Our mouths slip together and I take him in, lacing my fingers through his still-damp hair, tasting my coffee on his lips, his tongue as he presses deeper.
But as perfect as it is, something’s not quite right, something’s off. My mind is whirring, casting about, trying to figure it out, but then everything goes fuzzy as he lifts me onto the countertop. He unties the sash at my waist and my robe falls open, and he takes a beat to just take me in, his eyes dark. “God, Abby,” is all he can say before he spreads my legs apart. The look on his face as he nears me is almost enough to finish me off right there. It’s filthy, lascivious, impossibly carnal, but still with that ever-present air of mischief that is his hallmark. He wraps long fingers around my knees and smirks, a hungry, teasing smile as he trails slow kisses up my inner thigh, raking his teeth along my skin, then presses his mouth against me. The first pulse of his tongue rocks through me and I cry out. He moans at my reaction, at the way my body responds to him, yielding entirely to his touch. His hands grab my hips, pulling me closer, and his tongue darts in again. I slip my fingers back into his hair, my breath coming in helpless little gasps as I melt for him. All confusion that existed in my mind has been drowned out, replaced by a white-hot, blinding light as I focus on the sensation spreading out from my center.
But then, something breaks through.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Is it a car alarm from the street eighteen floors below? Did we leave the refrigerator door open? I push past the noise and concentrate on the contact of his lips, the firm grasp of his hands, the soft, guttural moans he makes. The pressure, the exquisite pressure, is building, and I know if I look down at him, it’ll push me over the edge and I don’t want this to end—ever. My fingersscrabble at the cold steel of the countertop as I attempt to brace myself…
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
The noise again, incessant now, the beeps invading my consciousness and threatening to undo all the good work of the magnificent tongue of Lachlan Ramsay. A small thought niggles into the back of my mind, but I push it away, trying desperately to stay where I am, right where I am, sweet fuckingGodright here, right here…
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
“Abby…” Lachlan mutters from between my legs, his voice deep and taunting. He raises his eyes to meet mine and they are pitch-black. “It’s time to wake up, darling.”
I shake my head but it’s too late, I’m rising up and into the harsh light of morning. I paw at my phone, smashing the snooze button, and try to force my mind back down into the dream, back down into the bliss I could spend my whole life exploring. But my waking mind has clambered into consciousness and the dream world dissolves. The cold steel of the countertop becomes the soft cotton of my sheets, the feel of Lachlan’s hands on my thighs now nothing more than a blanket twisted around my legs, the warm, wet sensation of his tongue pressing into me hopelessly, irrevocably gone. I squeeze my eyes tight, like that can somehow prevent the dream images and feelings from seeping out of my brain. I have mere seconds to solidify this memory before it’s gone forever. I manage to grasp onto a few slivers: that first kiss, Lachlan’s lips moving down my chin, pulsing in the soft hollow of my collarbone. His expression as he slides my legs apart. The purr of “Oh God, yes,” as he takes me into his mouth…
But despite my efforts, I can’t stay in the liminal state forever, and soon I’m fully awake, spread-eagle on the bed and absolutely crackling with the pulsating, frustrating energy of a lost orgasm (or three). I could finish myself off, but the ramifications of the dream are surfacing, and my stupid anxious mind is going to have to deal with them first.
It’s odd, I think, as I lie there panting. I mean, I obviously find Lachlan attractive, because I am a person with functioning eyeballs. I live in a constant state of denial about the fact that his wife exists, which gives me license to flirt with him. I’ve spent hours convincing myself that what we have is just friendship, just really incredible friendship with a fun frisson of attraction from time to time, nothing more—even if those frissons are becoming more frequent. Because whenever we have a moment, everything always slides back to normal, as if nothing happened. I mean, Josh was right: We will never, ever be together.
But now I’m squirming at this curveball lobbed at me by my subconscious. That wasnotthe dream of someone with purely platonic thoughts. I’ve never had a dream like that about Josh, for instance. And sure, maybe it was inevitable given how much time Lachlan and I spend together, but still…this felt different. So now, in addition to being impossibly turned on, I’ve also been thrust onto a new level of anxiety about our relationship and what it means.
Cool.
I roll out of bed and into the shower, the images from the dream parading through my mind as I soak myself under the scalding water. Even the fragmented memory is enough to leave me breathless, and I brace my arms against the tile wall to let the sensation pass.
I head into the main room, praying that Lachlan isn’t home,even though I know he is. I can’t face him…not yet. Thankfully, he’s not awake, so I have a moment to make coffee and read the newspaper in the hope that the various horrors of the world will drag me back down into ice-cold reality.
But after only a few minutes, I hear his familiar lilt. “Good morning, roomie. You’re up early.” He’s shirtless, which isn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but today makes my mouth go dry.
“I forgot to turn my alarm off last night,” I mutter, mostly to my mug.
Lachlan busies himself making tea. “What’s on the agenda today? How shall we bask in the glow of another Mersey victory?”
All I can focus on is the silky, almost poetic ripple of his back muscles as he opens the fridge door. He pours milk into his mug, catching an errant drop that rolls down the side and licking it off his thumb.
