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I thought about it while she stood at the rec hall sink washing blue paint from her fingers. I thought about it while she argued with Tamsin over whether her painting was technically bad or merely hostile to the concept of visual art. I thought about it when she leaned over the snack table and her shirt shifted just enough to expose a strip of skin at her waist.
And I thought about it the entire drive back here, with her sitting six inches away, smelling faintly of wine and whatever perfume she wears that was formulated for the sole purpose of ruining my life.
I lean against the wall beside the door and watch her set her bag on the narrow dresser.
“You’re staring.”
“I am.” I give her a blatant once-over.
“Why’s that?”
There are questions that deserve thoughtful answers. Questions requiring careful consideration of nuance, context, and the potential consequences of one’s response.
This is not one of them. “Because it’s taken a valiant effort on my part not to drag you into the nearest broom closet and fuck you senseless since approximately seven fifteen.”
Days of carefully navigating this woman’s boundaries, and all it takes is two cups of cheap wine and watching her paint a decomposing corpse for me to become a fucking caveman.
Her expression gives me absolutely nothing. “Seven fifteen?” she asks.
“Possibly earlier.”
“So specific, Bear.” That almost-smile. I want a million of them from her and then a million more.
She walks directly toward me.
I catch her waist. She makes a quiet sound against my mouth when I pull her closer, and that tiny fucking noise nearly ends me before we’ve even started.
I’ve kissed Serena before. I know the shape of her mouth.
I know what happens when I bite her bottom lip.
I know the sharp inhale she takes when my hand slips beneath the hem of her shirt and finds bare skin.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that I have dramatically overestimated my ability to reduce whatever this is between us to a manageable flame.
What I feel for her is a fucking inferno. “Serena.”
She pulls back barely an inch. “Yes?”
Her cheeks are flushed, eyes dark.
“I need you to be extremely clear with me right now.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “About?”
“How far we’re taking this.” I realize we’ve been there, done that, but the last thing I want to do is assume.
Then she reaches between us and unbuttons my jeans. “That clear enough?”
A laugh bursts out of me, half strangled and completely involuntary.
I drag my shirt over my head and toss it somewhere behind me. Serena’s eyes immediately drop to my chest.
Then lower.
Her fingers skim my stomach. “You’re shivering.”
“Well. You’re touching me.”
