is the getting-to-know-you type of kiss, the kind that says I see you and I like you and I want to do this.
I feel myself panic a little bit, because it feels too good. It feels like more than I’m supposed to feel, than he should feel, than anyone should feel. But I can’t seem to stop.
I want all of him.
I want none of this.
Oh fuck.
“Where do you live?” he murmurs, nipping my lower lip.
“I—” I blink, disoriented. Disoriented, maybe, but not stupid. A fake phone number’s enough for one day. “Your place is closer.”
“All right,” he says, swiping his thumb over my stinging lip. “Let’s go.”
9
CHRIS HOLDS MY HAND in the cab. I can’t remember the last time someone held my hand. He pays the fare when we get to his building, and helps me out of the car like I’m something special. We ride up to his floor with a woman who makes polite small talk about the unpredictable weather, and by the time we reach his door I’m ready to jump out of my skin. This is the most normal, traditional date I’ve been on in three years but it feels the most dangerous. Like the risks I’ve been trying to take are nothing compared to this. It’s stupid, I know, since I’ve been here before. I’ve slept with him before. And I’m still lying to him, so nothing has changed.
But I can’t lie to myself.
Something has changed.
He hangs up our coats, and I take off my boots and look around nervously. He’d tidied up. No dishes on the counter, no loose papers gathered around the laptop on the dining table. Beer bottles gone, shoes lined neatly along the wall. I curl my fingers in my sleeves, ridiculously nervous. Marnie and Naomi and Olivia never got nervous. But today I can’t muster up any new personalities. All I’ve got is me.
“You okay?” he asks. He comes a little closer, and instinctively, I shift back, my shoulder blades meeting the door.
I make myself meet his eye. “I’m fine.”
“You want a drink or anything?”
“No.”
“You want to hang out?”
“Is that what you want?”
He reaches up to catch the ends of my hair between his fingers, rolling the strands back and forth. “Not really.”
“Me either.”
He kisses me. Not quite as sweetly as he did on the rooftop, now that we’re indoors. Now that it’s totally appropriate to tear off all our clothes and wrestle each other to the ground to work out all these complicated, alarming...feelings.
I kiss him back, jittery with anticipation, the way it used to feel on Christmas Eve, tense and wonderful and unbearably slow. When I can’t take it anymore I make a noise that sounds a bit like a growl, enough to make him laugh, his teeth bumping my lip. I fist my hands in the hem of his shirt and pull it off, feeling the heat of his skin and the scratch of his chest hair and wanting so much more.
“You have to do more,” I mutter, snagging his hand.
He laughs again. “I will.”
“Like, right now.”
More laughter. “You’re funny, Denise.”
“I’m serious.” I start to remove my shirt, but he stops me.
“I’ll do it.”
“When?”
I see the sharp flash of his teeth as he smiles, then he yanks the shirt over my head, unexpectedly swift for a guy who seems to like everything to move at the pace of a dead snail. “Right now.”
“Hilarious.”
“I got my sense of humor from you.” He kisses me again before I can reply, stepping into me fully, our bellies pressed together, his hot and firm against mine.
He slides one hand down my spine to rest at the top of my ass, the other slipping beneath my bra to unclasp it. The straps loosen on my shoulders as he tugs me forward, down the hall toward his bedroom, kissing me the whole way.
The last time I saw his bedroom, it was three o’clock in the morning and I was sneaking out. I could barely discern the shapes of the furniture, identifying just enough to avoid crashing into anything as I made my escape. Now I stop the kissing and take in the room. It’s tidy in here, too. The shades are up, letting in the meager afternoon sun, the light glinting off the veneered tops of a dresser and end tables, a plain wooden headboard. The bed is made, the pale blue comforter set off by lemon yellow sheets peeking out the bottom.
There are a couple of framed photographs on the walls. Artwork,