I tilted my head, frowning. “And why is that?”
“Because, Snow, if I get anywhere near a surface where I can get you horizontal, I’m likely to fuck you so hard we forget our own names,” he informed me, voice heavy, almost unrecognizable it was so saturated with desire. His accent had become more pronounced and irresistible.
My thighs pulsed. “I don’t need to know my name,” I told him, blinking rapidly. “Names are completely and utterly overrated. Not needed in this society. That’s what selfies are for.”
His mouth was a tight line, and I didn’t miss the way he held his body, taut like he was restraining himself. “You’re drunk. And I’ve thought about sinkin’ into you since the moment I saw you with that martini glass at that party. And every night since. In none of those fantasies did you almost fall off your shoes and inform me of how nice my walk is.” The desire in his eyes parted to give way to a glimmer of amusement. “But that little detail was nonetheless perfect.” He paused, swallowing. “When I fuck you, Snow, I don’t want it to be blurry around the edges, swaying like it is now. I want you there. All there. Remembering the feel of me inside you with crisp fuckin’ detail so I can brand you on my skin. And so I don’t feel like I’m takin’ advantage. ‘Cause I know you’d have more fight in you sober.”
“You’re not taking advantage,” I said immediately. “Or if you are, I want you to.”
He let out a frustrated groan. “Hangin’ on by a thread here, baby. I’m trying to be the gentleman my mum raised me to be, so I’m gonna go against every instinct I have and leave. You are going to finish your water, get yourself to bed and remember what I said in the morning.” His eyes burned into mine. “This is far from done, Snow.”
On that promise, he turned on his heel and walked out the door.
“Go away,” I shouted. “I’m not humaning today.”
The insistent knocking stopped, thank the Lord. It was like it was pounding on my skull.
“I’ve got coffee,” Rosie called through the door.
I immediately shot up from the sofa and moved as quickly as my body would let me to the door.
When I opened it, I snatched the coffee from Rosie’s outstretched hand and turned my back to stalk back to my place on the sofa.
I closed my laptop and moved it to the coffee table as the clicking of heels on my hardwood floors signaled Rosie following me.
I sipped the delicious brew and gave her a once-over. Her chocolate hair was no longer a tumble of curls; it was dead straight, reaching past her shoulders and shining in that horrific sunlight streaming from the windows.
Her makeup was perfect, and she had on a vivid red lip to match her red off-the-shoulder playsuit that draped in all the right places.
My hair was piled atop my head and hadn’t been washed, let alone styled. I was wearing a black crop top with no bra and silk sleep shorts, and the only makeup I had on was stubborn remainders of the night before.
“How exactly are you like that?” I moaned, waving my hand at her.
She grinned. “Well that’s easy. I’m extraordinary.”
I scowled at her. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. Like everyone else, you adore me,” she said, flopping down in my leather armchair.
I glowered at her, sipping my coffee. “I move my emotions up to tolerate you with the delivery of this coffee,” I rectified.
She grinned, sipping her own. “Now that you have the java in you, you are compelled by law to tell me what the hell went on last night.”
“Law?” I repeated, my stomach rolling slightly at the thought of the previous night. As if I hadn’t been playing it over and over again in my mind since the second I woke up.
She nodded. “Rosie law. Punishment is death by florals.”
I rolled my eyes.
She sat forward. “Oh my God. It’s the Lucy tell. You always roll your eyes when you’re hiding something big,” she exclaimed.
“I do not.”
“Do too. When you lost your virginity, and didn’t want to tell me it was to someone as cliché as a quarterback, you did that exact same thing.”
I gaped at her. “That’s how you knew something was up?”
She gave me a look. “Dude, I’ve known you since we were in diapers. I got the skinny on you.” Her brows furrowed. “But not on this. So, tell me or I’ll inform Polly that Stefan didn’t, in fact, have an unfortunate hiking accident and that you’re the reason for his permanent limp.”
I sipped my coffee. “You’d just be implicating yourself in the crime.”
“Lucy,” she warned.
I sighed. Maybe it was the look, or the threat or the fact that I was very delicate and didn’t have the energy to try to evade this while hungover and shell-shocked from Keltan’s abrupt arrival, I told her.
Everything.
Which wasn’t exactly much considering it wasn’t some kind of epic love story. It was exactly three conversations and two kisses.
Yes, I’d been counting.
When I laid it out like that, months of obsessing over him made me feel like a dense schoolgirl in lust.
“It’s not like it’s a big deal,” I said sheepishly once I was done. “He’s hot. We kissed. And now he’s most likely going to fuck me until his touch is tattooed on me. Whatever that means.”
Rosie’s eyes were wide. She was silent for an uncomfortably long time, like she was choosing her words. In other words, like someone who looked like my best friend, but who certainly wasn’t acting like her. “It means you’re totally fucked, that’s what that means.” She glanced to the side table beside my armchair, searching for something. Before I knew it, she had grasped the small lighter beside my scented candle and threw it at me.
It hit my shoulder with a dizzying force for such a little person.
“Ouch,” I hissed, rubbing my arm. “What was that for?”
She leaned back like Vito Corleone, content after he killed someone, sipping her coffee. “That,” she informed me, “was for not telling me this sooner.”
I rubbed my shoulder, glowering. “There wasn’t much to tell. It was just a kiss. Two if we’re counting.”
I was counting.
She rose her brow. “And the Nile is just a river in Egypt.”
I frowned at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She grinned. “It means, my ice-cold friend, that that smoking-hot New Zealand soldier is going to mean trouble. The good kind.”
She waggled her brows.
“No. He most certainly is not,” I said firmly.
She grinned. “Oh, famous last words.”
I hoped not.
And the little drunk me that still remained, the one who actually wasn’t afraid of admitting the truth, hoped for the opposite.
The opening credits of Breakfast at Tiffany’s were playing when a knock sounded on the door.
Could a simple rack on timber be so ominous?
Yes. It could. Especially when the sound was most likely made by well-formed hands with calluses on the palms and tattoos snaking up from the wrist.
I didn’t actually know it was him.