Page 100 of Left-Hand Larceny
She’s still trembling when I ease my hand away. Her breath comes in shallow pants, one hand gripping my forearm like she’s anchoring herself. I stay pressed to her back, arms wrapped around her waist. She’s flushed and warm, her cheek resting against my collarbone, and when I kiss the side of her head, she lets out the softest sound I’ve ever heard from her.
“Still w-with me?” I whisper.
She nods. Barely.
I rub slow circles into her hips. “You d-did so good,Sæt stelpa. L-letting me t-t-touch you like that. Letting yourself f-feel.”
“I thought you didn’t want me,” she mumbles.
“I a-always want you.”
She swallows. “But you said—”
“I said we c-couldn’t do this a-at w-work. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I respect you too d-damn much to let anyone think I-I d-don’t.”
She nods against me, small and quiet. My hands stay gentle now, smoothing up her sides, brushing her curls off her face.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers the words so quietly I almost miss them. “I know I’m a lot. The confidence is all a facade, and you didn’t sign up for this neurotic version of me.”
It takes a concerted effort to not overtly react to her words. She won’t take that as offense on her behalf. She’ll read it as rejection, and right now I’d rather cut my throat with my skates than push her away.
“You’re n-not too much.” I murmur. “Not t-too needy. Not d-dramatic. Not a p-problem to s-solve. You’re you,Sæt stelpa. And I’m lucky a-as hell t-t-to know you.”
She turns slowly, her arms wrapping around my middle. “Thank you.”
“D-don’t thank me for t-telling you the t-t-truth.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wet. But steady.
“I think… I needed that more than I realized.”
I press my forehead to hers because I know. “That’s w-why I gave i-it to you.”
She smiles, and it’s quiet. Real.
We stay like that a moment longer before I brush a kiss to her temple and say, “Better f-freshen up before s-s-someone needs an ice p-pack.”
She snorts. “You’re lucky I like you.”
I grin. “I’m b-banking on it.”
By the time I get to Gershwin’s, the jukebox is already playing something sad and twangy, and Jen, Quinn’s ex roommate and current coworker, is halfway through a story about a man who tried to flirt with her using a raccoon meme.
“I swear,” she says, leaning dramatically across the sticky table, “he said—and I quote—‘I’m like this raccoon. Scrappy and loyal.’”
Quinn nearly spits out her drink. “Scrappy?”
“Loyal?” Mads echoes.
Jen shrugs. “I mean, I do like garbage pandas.”
“No, Jen.” Quinn says with an exaggerated shudder. “Just no.”
We all laugh, and for a few minutes, it feels good. Normal. Like the weight that’s been sitting on my chest has loosened just a little.
The place is loud enough that no one notices how quiet I am. I sip my cider, play with the condensation on the glass, and nod along to the conversation about work drama, grad school, and Maddie’s theory that one of our assistant coaches has a secret love child in Ottawa. I don’t see the connection myself, but Mads is terrifying with an internet connection.
Then it just… slips out.
