Page 44 of Left-Hand Larceny

I thought I was being honest.

Mayday. SOS. Someone help me.

I squirm a little on the mattress, thighs brushing together. I shouldn’t be this affected by a guy who barely uses emojis and replies in complete sentences. He punctuates text messages, for fuck’s sakes, but I can’t help it. It’s just Ragnar. And there is something… unfathomable… about the quiet way he sees me.

No pressure. No judgment. Just… acceptance.

Also, I haven’t had sex in over a year. Okay, two. I think I’ve already ruined my panties.

Me:

Well. You should maybe warn a girl when you’re going to be this sweet. I wasn’t prepared.

You’re like, emotionally hot.

I send it and then bury my face in my pillow with a muffled groan. Why did I do that? This isn’t banter anymore. I’m flirting! I don’t have time to ruminate. Not with his reply buzzing a second later.

Ólaffson:

That might be the kindest compliment anyone has ever given to me.

And it came from you, Sadie.

Can I keep it?

Maybe I should be offended that he’s surprised I can be nice, but I’m not. He wouldn’t be doing… this—whatever this is—with me if he thought I was a bitch. I don’t even try to stop the grin, or the slow, warm throb that pulses through me like a heartbeat. It’s late. My defenses are down. He’s saying things that make me feel good. Really, really good. And maybe I don’t need to justify it.

Me:

Only if you say something nice back.

I’m needy like that.

Ólaffson:

Easy.

You’re brilliant.

Kind.

Funny in a way that sneaks up on me and stays in my head for hours.

And the pink in your glasses makes me want to kiss you every time you look at me,

But I’m not telling you that.

That definitely wasn’t just friendly. I can’t bring myself to care. Not when I started this thing glowing between us.

Me:

That’s more than one.

Ólaffson:

Yes.

I let my head fall back against the headboard, heart pounding. My whole body tingles with it, with the heat blooming low and insistent. My fingers hover over my phone screen. I can’t decide what to say. Can’t think straight with every part of me drawn tight like a bow. Aching.

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