Page 48 of Savage Beauty

I push up off the bed, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure against my zipper. “You stay here. I’ll be right back with food.”

CHAPTER16

Sloane

He kissed me. It’s all I can think of after he leaves the room. Four of my fingers lightly cover my still tingling lips.

His closed-mouth kiss, like one middle school kids share, circulated heat from my lips through my body with the same impact as my first kiss in fourth grade. And just like back then, he moved away as quickly as possible.

He returns with a platter of papaya, sliced cheese, bread, one bottle of water, and one glass of orange juice. Nausea rises at the sight of bottled water. I got incredibly sick after drinking bottled water. I know it’s irrational to stop drinking bottled water. If it had been Sage or anyone else, they would push me. Tell me I can’t afford to mark one more thing off my list of things I will eat or drink. But he hasn’t pushed me at all. He’s simply accepted it, probably because things don’t bother him.

We eat together in silence. I’m not hungry, but when I push the plate aside, he says, “Is that all you’re having? Have at least two more slices of cheese.”

Cheese and bread are two of my favorite foods, so I don’t fight him. I also like papaya if it’s not too slimy.

After eating, I follow him into the other upstairs bedroom and watch as he checks and re-checks guns and other equipment. Sam used to like to tinker with his guns, too. I don’t mind guns when they sit in a room. It’s when they are loud that I can’t bear them. The kick is jarring when shooting them, and depending on the kind of gun, the kick hurts. I also don’t like the acrid smell. Sam understood guns would never work for me. But, like Max, I would watch Sam clean and prepare his guns.

Every time Max passes, he touches me. Lightly. On the shoulder. Or my hair. My thigh. My knee. Whatever body part is close.

All the touching releases too much oxytocin, pheromones, and dopamine. I don’t need to test myself for it; I just know. A tingly, warm sensation affects me with every touch, no matter how light or meaningless. I’m far too cognizant of his presence. Of his movements. His breathing. When he swallows. Of his scent. And he doesn’t use cologne. His aroma comprises soap and possibly deodorant or aftershave, yet I have this irrational desire to rub my nose along his throat and breathe him in.

But he hasn’t tried to kiss me again.

And I won’t make a move. Not again. I’m used to men who respond positively when I first suggest sex. And he’s sending mixed signals. For all I know, he didn’t like the kiss. We don’t fully understand attraction. Research has found that it’s a mix of hormones and that attraction means our bodies are responding favorably to the mix of the other person’s chemicals. Reciprocation is not guaranteed. Based on the evidence at hand, it appears my body is highly attracted to the mix of hormones his body generates, whereas his body isn’t as receptive to my mixture.

I wish he was like William. Nothing was confusing with William. The physical attraction had been evident, and we both agreed to act on it. He would make sure I orgasmed, then he would orgasm. If we were at the office, we would return to work. If we were at my apartment, he would leave. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement without confusion or nerves.

I don’t recall being as affected by William’s presence. That was an easier situation to navigate. Being reactive to a light touch is irritating. The chemicals my brain is releasing lead to poor decision making and thought processing. When he kissed me, all thoughts stopped. That’s not a beneficial situation at all.

He zips a backpack. Sets it down. Then opens a suitcase of clothes. He takes out a black long-sleeved t-shirt and black cargo pants and drops them on the bench in front of him. He lifts the bottom of his short-sleeved tan t-shirt and pulls the material up his back, then over his head. The shirt tousles his hair, and his fingers brush through his scalp, settling the wayward strands.

I think he’s forgotten I’m in here. I’ve been sitting here lost in my own thoughts, and he’s forgotten me, but I can’t break my gaze away from his broad shoulders and tapered waist. His back isn’t as tan as his arms, and a faint tan line cuts across his biceps and around the base of his neck. His hands go to the front of his pants.

I sit back in the armchair and find my throat has tightened, making it uncomfortable to swallow.

“Do you have anything darker to wear?”

He turns, revealing his perfectly proportioned pecs and ripples along his abdomen. There’s a smattering of darker hair below his belly button to the waistband, where his hand rests. I can’t stop looking. I just saw him today in the ocean wearing a swimsuit. It’s the same thing as boxers, which are undoubtedly what he’s wearing below those shorts. Or maybe tight briefs. It’s all the same thing, and if it wasn’t for my body’s pheromones?—

“Sloane? Did you pack something that’s darker?”

“Yes.” I rush out of the room to change. Not because we need to hurry, but because I can’t stop staring and my mind isn’t functioning as sharply as it should.

When I exit my bedroom, I’m wearing a dark purple long-sleeve lightweight sweater and a stretchy black miniskirt that falls to mid-thigh. I’m not sure the two colors match, but he said to wear dark clothes, and most of the summer clothes I packed when I moved to Grand Cayman are light color combinations, like sand, gray, or light blue. Years ago, I concluded that monochrome outfits save time, so I buy outfits that are the same color, top and bottom. I sometimes buy dresses, but they aren’t as practical for biking.

“These are my darkest clothes. Are they okay? And I have leather sandals downstairs.”

He blinks, and I follow his gaze to my legs. They are quite pale, almost luminescent. My face and shoulders are pink, but the sun didn’t seem to touch the skin on my legs. “I have some lightweight tan pants. Do you want me to change?”

“Do your sandals have heels?” His voice is low and growly.What an odd question.

“No. I don’t wear heels. They are terrible for your feet. Also, with my height…” I shrug. “I have a rule against impractical items. Heels are highly impractical. I would probably trip and fall?—”

“What you're wearing is fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

Origins Laboratories doesn’t have a security team patrolling the grounds. This is what the Arrow team has concluded. I told them they didn’t, but they insisted that they might have made changes since I’ve been gone.

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