Page 14 of My Enemy, My Obsession

He seems to prove as much when he says, “I very much want you to touch me, Zoey.”

Oh God. Stop with the Zoey. Please. This is one big fantasy, I remind myself. Being Zoey wouldn’t be a bad thing if Zoey wasn’t my mother.

I shake myself and force myself back into the moment. “Then why are my hands between us?”

“Neither one of us is ready for where that takes us.”

“Thanks to all the whiskey you poured down my throat, I feel pretty ready.”

He arches a brow. “You want this to be over and done? Because I don’t.”

His confession does funny things to my belly. “No?”

“No,” he assures me. “I do not.”

“What does that mean?” And those nerves I thought I didn’t feel are swimming through me like liquid fire.

His eyes narrow, and he studies me with such intensity that I think he’s trying to read me, maybe gauge just how nervous I am, as if he read my sudden wave of inhibition. He releases my hands and cups my face. “Relax, sweetheart.”

I wet my dry lips. “I’m relaxed.”

“You’re nervous, and you don’t need to be. Nothing happens that you don’t want to happen with me, ever. Just say no.”

“I don’t want to say no.”

“Not in this moment, but I hope knowing you can, will make you relax. Maybe you need that wine.”

“Maybe we should have brought the whiskey bottle.”

“Done,” he says, and he leans in and brushes his lips over mine. “I’ll get us one.” He starts to turn away, and I catch his sleeve. “I don’t think you need to.”

“It’ll keep if you decide you’ve had enough, which, for the record, I want you to relax, not forget.” He motions to the living room. “Go sit, or stay at the window. Do what feels right.”

He’s shifted dramatically from intense to easygoing, and it’s whiplash I’m not even sure I wanted. He’s given me space, said all the right things, but also given me time to think, and thinking is almost worse than not thinking when it comes to nerves.

He walks to the living room to grab the phone. I follow him, and when he’s ordered room service, including champagne, strawberries, and whiskey, I’m standing in wait, my arms awkwardly folded in front of me.

“I thought you might want options.”

“You’re very big on options.”

He closes the space between us. “Only on some things.”

He catches my hand with his, his grip swallowing mine, and reminding me how big he is, and how tiny I feel next to him. I like it. I like him. How can I like him when my father hates him and he doesn’t even know my name? Because it’s sex, I tell myself. And sometimes that’s okay. This will be my first time doing the whole sex is sex thing, but why can’t I? I am woman, hear me roar, as my mother used to say. I’m still thinking too much.

His lips curve. “And stop thinking so much.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Why do you think I just ordered room service?”

“Maybe fast and over is a good idea.”

“It can be, but to that I say, maybe later, after we go a little slower. Come on,” he says, urging me to follow him.

I tug slightly, and when he looks at me, I say, “Where are we going?” Which is an utterly stupid question. I know where we’re going.

Now there is pure mischief in his eyes, as he says. “The view is even better in the bedroom.”

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