It was like I could hear Wes’s smile on the other line. “You’re not you because of your trauma, Nova. You’reyouin spite of it.”
I went still, everything inside me calming and settling.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said. “I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself.”
The urge to deflect with a joke was so strong, I felt the muscles in my neck straining.
“Thank you. I’m trying.” I watched Inara’s paws curl under my door, creating an abrasive banging sound. “I’ll bring my plaid skirt,” I added, because I couldn’t help myself.
Wes chuckled. “Not really my thing. I’d rather you come asyou.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That, I can do.”
This time, when Wes and I rode the L into Manhattan together, everything was different. We were the annoying couple staring at each other as the doors opened and closed at each stop. Wes was in a dark green, impossibly soft shirt and dark pants. I wore a long, summery red dress and my beat-up sneakers.
I glanced down at the bag he’d given me.
He laughed. “You can open it now, if you want.”
The train stopped again. I pulled out a book that couldn’t have been longer than two-hundred pages.
“The Story of O,” I read. I smiled at him, vaguely recognizing the title.
“I thought you might appreciate adding a classic to your research pile,” Wes said. “It was published under a pseudonym in France in 1954, and the identity of the woman who wrote it wasn’t confirmed until forty years later. She’d originally written the novel as a series of love letters to her lover and editor, who admired the Marquis de Sade—another important kink history figure—and didn’t believe a woman could write an erotic masterpiece. She, of course, proved him wrong.”
“Thank you,” I said, placing the book back in the bag as I stared up at him in awe. His literary knowledge was so fucking hot.
Wes hadn’t kissed me since Sunday night, when we were listening to Slowdive. This was a fact I was intensely aware of the longer we stayed like this—close, magnetized, but never fully breaking the tension.
It was making me crazy. Feral, even.
And Wes knew it. I could see it in his eyes—the denial was intentional.
At our stop, he finally leaned down, his lips an inch from mine. I didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. They brushed against my skin just to the side of my lips, featherlight. A current rolled down my body, all the way to my toes.
Wes pulled away with a smirk and led me off the train, hand in mine.
“You are evil.”
Wes laughed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” We walked up the steps to rejoin the world above. “But I seem to remember warning you of this, so you have only yourself to blame.”
He had me there.
“You know they have Indian food in Brooklyn,” I said, eyeing the restaurant we were entering in the West Village.
“I’m broadening your horizons, Nova. It’s worth it, trust me,” he said.
He opened the door, his hand on my lower back as a guide. I relaxed into his touch. The wicker light fixtures were warm-toned, illuminating the tropical artwork and dramatic tile floors.
We were seated in a corner, a single tealight candle between us. When my eyes met the menu, my brain turned to static, as it did every time I was confronted with a list of food choices. I also quickly realized these entrées were not priced the same as my comfort Indian two blocks from my place. These prices made my palms sweat.
“How are you doing over there?” Wes asked. “You seem stressed.”
I looked up at him, his warm hazel eyes dancing with humor. “No. I am regular. Normal, some might say.”
“Who says that?”
I glared.
