“What do you want?” She asks, with a coy smirk.
Her and all that it implies. I crave her time, her heart and her mind. But instead of confessing, I chicken out and say, “Your fan theories.”
We spend the next two hours talking about the past six seasons of The Knights of the Night. She loosens her hair as she paces around the coffee table, giving basically a TED Talk on the funniest one liner in the series. I order more food, and we have a heated debate about the wolf clan and the parallels between the brothel politics. That’s around the time I noticed our knees were touching. I don’t look down at them, terrified that if I make a comment she’ll pull away. She yawns as the second round of room service arrives.
“Okay, but did you see how the cinematography is an exact contrast in season two episode five as it is season five episode two?” I ask as I open the door and bring in the extra pizza and water.
I think she was about to leave, but the warm cheese and tomato sauce was enough to keep her a little longer. She reaches for a slice, and the strap of her evening gown falls to the side. A juxtaposition between the elegant woman and the nerdy fan leaning over the coffee table as she takes a bite. And here’s the thing: that’s always who she’s been. A constant contrast between the expectation and reality. Fuck, I missed her.
I don’t expect a future with her or even her forgiveness. She’s given me her time, and her thoughts on her fandom. I shouldn’t ask for anything more. But it feels like there’s entire tomes that have gone unsaid.
I toss a pizza crust inside the box, and she grabs it to finish it off. And it seems like a perfect time to switch the topic. “Do you want to do bodily harm to me?” I ask.
“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it before you ordered the pizza.” Then, softer, “I don’t feel hatred or malice. I like your fan theories too much.” The pizza crust vanishes between bites, “It’s been nice talking to you.” That’s a very good sign. I stare at the wood grain on the coffee table.
“It’s been fun.” It’s been the most fun I’ve had in forever, and I don’t want it to end. What can I offer her to keep her here a little longer, something only I can give her? “Can I convince you to stay?"
She crosses her arms from the other side of the couch. Her gaze shifts from calculating to smoky. “What I really want is to get off.”
What? My whole body feels like I’ve walked into a brick oven. Is she calculating my response? “Hmm?” Very smooth, Grae.
She gazes off at the TV which is playing an ad for some other show. “All my friends are in serious relationships, and every time I go to Joey’s sex club, I can’t even find anyone I’m interested in.” Alana has always been comfortable with her sexuality. Since high school, she’s led me down paths I never expected. “It’s been a while since the cup guy, and I vaguely remember you being pretty good at getting me off.”
Is this a test? A trap? “Is that all?” I ask.
“Well, you did offer.”
This is definitely a test, and I want to make things right with her. I owe her that much. And if she leaves now, I might never get the chance.
CHAPTER 7
Grae
I could do this, make her moan, scream, and come until she was breathless. Yeah, no problem. But this was Alana and one touch, one taste and I could be ruined. Again. She was like a drug, my favorite type, it was like getting my ten-year chip and throwing it all away. And for what? So she would dislike me instead of hating me.
I also think she’s bluffing.
“When was the last time you came? Last time you fucked?” I asked.
The heat rushes across her skin as it pinkens. She shakes her head. “No. What you want to know is when the last time I came while getting fucked was. Those are three different questions with the same answer. Longer than I want to admit.”
She watches me swallow, but my focus never leaves her, demanding she continue. Her dress rides further up on her thighs when she crosses her legs. “I vaguely remember we used to be pretty good at this.”
“There’s nothing vague about it for me.” I stand, smoothing my shirt and giving her an appraising glance.
Her predatory gaze dares me to call her bluff. Her fingers slither up her neck, tracing, then drifting down her exposed cleavage. I meet her eyes, not looking at me as a shy eighteen-year-old, but as a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
“I remember everything, Alana.” Her fingers brush her hard nipples. Hmm, no bra? “The way you taste, and the stifled moans you used to make so we wouldn’t wake up your parents.” I push the coffee table back and stand in front of her, watching every rise and fall of her chest with each breath she takes. My voice deepens while inching toward her, “The ways you cracked when I made you come when we were alone.”
The room smells like comfort food and temptation, everything I shouldn’t want and what I’ve been craving for years. I glance at the empty water bottles littering the space. She hasn’t been drinking. Everything she’s doing is sober and calculated.
“Is this against your rules?”
She holds my gaze. “The same rules that got me up here apply. And I’m in a rare good mood. I’d like to keep it a little longer.”
“You come with history and emotional baggage, and you want to get off and walk away, right?” I whisper.
She lowers her head in agreement. Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
