Page 43 of The First Love Myth

“I know.” I can feel each letter of his response. A sliver separates us, keeping us on the safe side of the line. But I don’t want to be safe.

“Max,” I breathe as his lips finally touch mine.

The door swings open, screeching on its hinges. The sounds of the party come back to me. Max jumps back, his hands dropping into his lap. We stare at each other for a second before he turns to focus on the person in the doorway. Joe, I realize.

“The pizza’s here, man,” he says warily. And I can’t blame him. A little over a year ago, I sat in his classroom, organizing homecoming photos for the yearbook. Now, we’re at a party together.

The Max whose gaze meets mine is not the same man who moments before kindled my desire. He’s the Max I know fromthe track and from breakfast, but there’s a shadow over him now. He stands without a word and walks out of the room.

Chapter 35

Liz

My hands shake as I arrange the charcuterie. I take a small sip of wine and turn my attention back to Spencer. He’s in one of those man sprawls on the couch, arms behind his head, sunk deep into the cushions, legs long and wide. Inviting him over felt natural and completely right when I did it this afternoon after finding out that Zoey was staying in Ardena for the night. But now that he’s here in my apartment and there’s no chance of interruptions, my body is equally burdened with anxiety and desire.

We’ve spent a lot of time together in the past few weeks. If he’s not with Ryan, he’s with me. And we’ve gotten close to having sex enough times that I feel the way his eyes track me as I move through the kitchen, and I know exactly where to touch to make him moan, and yet something always stops us. Mainly me. But tonight, there’s nothing to stop us. He’s here in my house, and I’m wearing a little red dress that cuts in all the right places. I want him to stop telling me a story about his son and instead drag me into the bedroom, leaving our clothes strewn across the floor.

I look back up at him, ready to engage with his story, but he’s watching me with this uncanny smile.

“Having an acid flashback?” I ask, looking around my small apartment. He mentioned upon entering that my space is pretty much his in reverse.

He laughs. “No, I was thinking how nice this is. Thanks for having me.”

His voice dips on that last part, and his eyes meet mine, saying all the dirty things he doesn’t. Apparently, my innocuous text about having dinner instead of going out was not as innocuous as I suspected. He clearly read right through the subtext to my actual request—do you want to skip dinner and bang—because he’s dressed in a button-down with the sleeves rolled up and brought fancy wine.

“Of course,” I say, returning to my appetizers. “It’s nice to have a guest that’s not family here.”

“Does it feel real now?”

I nod. “Almost too real but in this amazing way. I feel less like a squatter and less like this is some weird immersive camp experience.”

“Well, I’m honored that you invited me into your home.”

Into my bed is more like it. I count to ten and then look up at him. It’s never uncomfortable between us, and I’m not going to let tonight go that way. It will or won’t happen.

“You might rethink that when you see this charcuterie tray.” I slide some crackers onto the platter I got at the thrift shop on my way home.

He shrugs. “I lived on pizza rolls and Caesar salad kits for the first four months after my separation.”

An image of a scruffy, sweatpants-clad version of the well-put-together man in front of me pops into my mind. A baseball hat sits low on his head, covering too long and unkempt hair. Though I’ve only known him a few weeks, I suspect this depiction is right on.

“Well, I’m glad your expectations are low because I’m not sure I even have a second serving platter for the main course.”

He walks toward me then peeks at the tray I’ve placed on the counter between us. “You can’t replace a lifetime of kitchenwarein a few weeks.” He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. My pulse quickens at his touch, at his lips at my ear and the quick beat of his heart against my back. “I like the dress.”

My head falls back onto him as he kisses my neck. His hands snake their way up my stomach, skimming my breasts. I turn in his arms. “I thought you might.”

His eyes seek mine, looking for approval, for consent. I hold his gaze and give an imperceptible nod—yes, please, yes—before bringing my lips to his. He pushes me back against the counter and fits himself between my legs. I feel him, all of him, everywhere. My body is on fire. I unbutton his shirt and push it to the floor. My hands go to his chest and then down farther, farther, until I hear him moan under my attention.

Our lips never part, each dip and breath deepening the kiss, urging us closer. He kisses down to my chest, pushing the straps of my dress off my shoulders. His fingers slip under the soft material, and a spike of desire shoots through me.

“Shall we take this out of the kitchen?” he asks as my dress slips farther down.

“I don’t know.” I undo the button of his pants. “The cold cuts are creating quite the ambiance.”

“True.” He slips the straps of my dress off my arms and watches as it falls to the floor. “But I like to take my time.”

His eyes rake across my body, and he picks me up, his lips coming back to my chest. He steps out of his pants and kisses me again. It’s dizzying and desperate. I want him inside me now.

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