Page 7 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
Her horrified eyes blinked up at him before scrambling up with clumsy haste, and he was there, crouched beside her, flashing that dazzlingly warm smile. It was like standing in the sun after a cold dark winter. He'd helped her unwind the cord like it was the most natural thing in the world.
From then on, he kept running into her. Coincidences, she had thought at first. Until that night, four months after they had first met, when he had casually asked, "Are you hungry?"
They had taken the tube to a tucked-away Indian place that served good, cheap food-plastic chairs, paper menus, and the best chaat she'd ever had. They talked about London, about the city's grit and beauty. They had nothing in common; he with his finance degree and slow climb through what she later realised was his father's empire, and she with stories about her sister, her world smaller, quieter.
He asked if he could see her again.
And she agreed. Just not in public.
The first time he kissed her was in the storage cabinet on the fourth floor. Six months had gone by since they first laid eyes on each other. She'd gone in for more disinfectant wipes, and he followed, silent as ghost, and before she realised, he was there, he had closed the door behind them. Then he was on her, pressing her to the wall, mouth hot and hungry against hers. His lips bruised hers with urgency, his teeth biting her plush lower liplike she was a luscious cupcake. His hips pinned her in place.
Outside, footsteps echoed down the hallway. They froze, breathing ragged in each other's mouths, trying not to make a sound.
The footsteps faded and silence returned.
Crispin didn't make any attempt to let her go. His mouth hovered near hers, breath hot and uneven. His hands still gripped her hips-firm, possessive, and trembling with restraint.
Then, in a voice roughened by arousal, he whispered, "Don't move. Please."
Aria blinked up at him, startled.
He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling shakily. "If I have to walk out of here with this hard-on, someone's going to call security."
Her mind was in chaos. It was not because of what he said, but because she had never let herself get into a situation like this-not behind a supply cabinet door, and definitely not with someone like him. This was supposed to be the part where she straightened her uniform, pushed him away, and remembered who she was.
But something inside her refused to let this moment go.
It was a small movement. A slow, involuntary twist of her hips against his, like a forgotten instinct awakening.
In the dimness, she heard the groan he tried to suppress. She watched with fascination, the sharp bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.
His fingers slid up and tightened on her waist, hard enough to bruise. "Have mercy," he murmured, a low growl against her cheek, "my little witch."
A small, wicked smile curved her lips. "Maybe I might. But witches don't usually take orders from mere mortals."
He let out a strangled sound-half laugh, half groan-and leaned his forehead against the cabinet wall behind her. "If you're trying to kill me, I would at least like to die somewhere better than a supply closet. Maybe in your bed? With your legs wrapped around me?"
She bit back a giggle and heard herself say, "Oh, I don't know... This place has character. Must be the air freshener. It smells like bleach and despair in here."
He laughed properly this time. It made his chest move against hers. She could feel every inch of him, especially the part he'd warned her not to move against.
"I mean it," he said, straightening but still holding her close. "You're dangerous."
"And yet," she said innocently, "you followed me in here."
He grinned, eyes dark with heat. "I clearly have no survival instincts."
They stayed like that, pressed together in the dim warmth of the supply closet, for a few breaths longer.
Neither spoke.
Her hands rested lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the fine fabric. His grip on her hips had eased, but he hadn't let go. It was as if both knew the moment was borrowed. Fragile. Deliciously reckless.
Finally, Crispin drew in a breath, less ragged now. "We should...probably think of moving into a bigger place," he murmured, voice still thick with amusement.
"Speak for yourself," she replied softly. "I've got wipes, bleach, and industrial-strength disinfectant. It's practically a palace."
That earned her a crooked smile. But they both knew it was time.
