Page 69 of Drowning Erin

I wonder if he has any idea that he sounds like a boyfriend right now. Agoodboyfriend. I don’t point it out. He’d find the revelationhorrifying.

“We can’t be having sex the whole time,” Iwarn.

“Erin,” he says, sounding exasperated, “I’m capable of controlling myself when I haveto.”

I snort. “I guess I haven’t witnessed thatyet.”

“What do you think I was doing,” he counters, “for the two months before I slept withyou?”

* * *

Iarriveat his place expecting him to undress me immediately, but hedoesn’t.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, grabbing aplate.

He’s wearing my favorite T-shirt, the one that brings out the gold in his skin and makes his eyes look Photoshopped. I instantly regret the prior claims I made about sex, and us not havingit.

“I didn’t really mean we couldn’t haveanysex,” I volunteer, and he justlaughs.

I walk toward him, and he turns to me sternly, wielding the tongs like a weapon. “Don’t even think about getting laid until you’re done with yourwork.”

“I think you’re underestimating how long this is going to take,” I reply, a hint of pleading in myvoice.

“That’s okay,” he says, returning to the grill. “Just get your work done. We don’t need to havesex.”

I suspect he’s doing it just to torture me, becausewe don’t need to have sexis not a phrase I ever imagined coming from his mouth. I bet the words burned his throat a little as they cameout.

* * *

Ishould probably leaveafter dinner, but I don’t want to. We settle in on opposite sides of his couch: me with a laptop, him with a book, legs intertwined. He seems disappointingly unaware of my presence, whereas I am aware of little other than his. Every time he shifts, every time his foot brushes my leg, I grow very aware of the fact that he is there, and that we have not had sex in nearly 18 hours. Just the way he sits with his legs spread wide makes me think of things I shouldnot.

“A quickie might take the edge off,” Iventure.

“Get back to work,” he says, without even glancingup.

Minutes later, I’ve only typed about two sentences, and I am hyper-focused on the fact that his foot has just brushed mine. Such a small, simple motion. It could happen with anyone and be meaningless, except that it's not anyone, it's Brendan, who has the filthiest mind and mouth of anyone I've ever been with. So that little brush of his foot has an entire soundtrack of memories accompanyingit.

“I’m having a hard time focusing,” I whine. “Maybe weshould…”

He cocks a brow. “Not a chance, blondie. You asked for self control. You’re getting selfcontrol.”

Great.Trust Brendan to turn it into a personalchallenge.

“You want to try it in the hammock?” I suggest. “I promise I won’t get mad if we fallout.”

He laughs but doesn’t even glance atme.

“Remember when you told me that fantasy you had, with me in the red thong? Well, guess which thong I’mwearing?”

Even that doesn’twork.

“I give up,” I say, pulling off my cardigan. He watches me remove it, and I catch the look in his eyes before he glances away.That’swhen I realize how to win thisbattle.

He returns to his book, but seconds later I catch him looking again, surreptitiously, just for amoment.

I am no longer worried about my project. I can get up at 5 AM to finish it. Or maybe Timothy can fucking provide a week’s notice next time. I set the laptop on the couch, still open, and stand. I start taking off myjeans.

"Seriously?" hegroans.

---