Page 15 of Mayfly

“I think it bothers you that I keep asking.”

Curren puts the small remaining piece of cake he’s holding into his mouth, and lets his lips close around the tips of his fingers to gently remove the crumbs. “You can ask me a question as many times as you like. But I still get to decide whether to answer.”

I know that for a person who chooses their words carefully, Curren will always have something to shoot back at me, because this kind of banter is a well-rehearsed dance for us. One we’ve slipped straight back into like we’ve never spent a day apart. Then, as if to spite me, he drags his middle and index finger across the cake, deliberately smearing them with cream.

I roll my eyes. “Way to ruin the rest of it.” Though, I can’t really gather enough fake indignation to make it sound genuine.

After placing the box beside him on the bench, he raises his cream-covered fingers between us; swapping his gaze between them and me.

It takes every bit of my self-control not to grab his wrist and lick them clean.

Luckily I don’t have to suffer this limbo for long, because he languidly draws his hand to his mouth. Then he's cleaning the leather. Slow and deliberate. His eyes never leave mine as histongue dips between his fingers, sucking off every trace of white, sticky cream. Like he’s taunting me.

Like he knows he has me exactly where he wants me.

Like he’s saying, “I played your game; now accept your defeat.”

Swallowing hard, my entire world tilts on its axis as realization strikes me like a bolt of lightning.

I wasn’t hurt when I lost him all those years ago. I was heartbroken.

I didn’t just seek out this career as a ‘fuck you’ to my father. It was because, deep down, I knew that if I couldn’t have him, I didn’t want anyone else either.

He was a broken child.

Then a spiteful teen.

Now he's the man unapologetically fucking his mouth with his fingers in the middle of Hyde Park at one pm in the afternoon.

“I think you’ve proved your point."

Curren's tongue makes one last swipe across his thumb before he lowers his hand. His expression is unchanged, those dark eyes still hypnotizing me from behind chestnut waves. “Do you think so?” he asks, swallowing, and I can taste the bitterness of my jealousy at the cream inside his mouth.

I leave his question unanswered. What does he want me to say, anyway?Yes, you’ve proved that you can render me speechless. You still control my life.

But I can’t say those things. Not when I don’t know how he’ll receive them. Not when his intentions could be nothing more than to see how far he can push me before I snap. I mean, what am I even thinking? Curren’s not gay. Hell, I’m not even gay.

He’s still staring at me, and I shift on the bench in a pathetic attempt to conceal what's going on in my pants.

“Is there a problem, Jude?”

“Um—no. I just get uncomfortable when I sit for too long.”

“I don’t think it’s your ass that’s uncomfortable.”

“Maybe you're not as good at reading me as you think you are.”

“And maybe you're just as bad at hiding things as you always were.”

“What makes you think I’m hiding something?”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you always got when you were trying to lie to me.” His eyes drop to my lips, then circle my face. “You’re blushing.”

“Am not.”

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