Page 93 of Win Some Love Some
Or maybe, in my heart of hearts, I’d always known I was doing it with the wrong person.
Now I was going to doitwith Nick and everything was going to change. One way or another. He locked the door behind us and I stood in the center of his living room. There was a couch to my left and beyond the kitchen was his bedroom. Should I go back there? Just…walk into his bedroom? Or should I sit on the couch? Were we going to have sex on the couch? The floor? I looked down at my silver shoes on his blue and beige rug. When was the last time he vacuumed?
“I need a drink,” I blurted out.
Silent, he took off his suit coat and tossed it over the back of the couch. He walked to the kitchen and I heard the clink of ice cubes against glasses.
“How come you haven’t bought a house yet?” I called out.
He came back with two glasses half-filled with brown liquor.
“That looks like a double shot,” I said, pointing at the glass.
“We’re about to see each other naked,” he reminded me. “And you’re freaking out.”
I was. How very Nick of him to notice.
I downed the shot in two large gulps and felt the fire all the way down to my stomach.
“I like the commute,” he said. I stared at him blankly. “You asked why I haven’t bought a house?”
“You have scads of money. I know, because I do your books. You could buy a mansion if you wanted.”
“What the fuck would I do with a mansion?”
Fill it. With lots and lots of family.
“Have you ever thought about getting married?” I asked him. His eyes immediately got wide. “Calm down, buddy. I don’t mean me or now. I just mean in general. Is that how you saw your life going?”
He sat down on the couch, and put his drink in front of him on an ugly but serviceable table. He unbuttoned the buttons at his wrist and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
I nearly gasped. That quickly, and with such little provocation, I was wet between my legs. Apparently, watching Nick roll up his sleeves was better than pornography. It was better than most of the sex I’d ever had. And I’d seen his arms a million times.
“You like this?” he asked, watching me from under his lashes. That was hot too. He rolled up his other sleeve, a flame tattoo covered his right forearm.
“I remember when you got that,” I said, breathless.
“Birdie gave me so much shit.”
“Why flames?” I asked. “You never told me.”
He shrugged and leaned back on the couch, his arms stretched wide. “You really want to talk about my tattoo?” That cocky half smile that sent flames through my blood.
I shook my head no.
“You want to talk to me about marriage?”
Another no.
I mean, I did. I really did. I’ve wanted to talk to him about those things forever. But his sitting there like some kind of mob boss and me so wet between my legs, I didn’t want to talk about anything.
“What do you want?” he asked me. I shook my head. I’d made myself so clear. I’d orchestrated every moment between us, if anyone in this room needed to be reassured, it was me.
“What do you want?” I shot back.
I wanted to burn from his brain every reservation he had. I wanted to chase away his doubt and misgivings. I wanted to be a woman to him. Fully-grown and realized and sexual. I wanted to shock him. Own him. Ruin him for any other woman.
“I want you,” he said quietly. “I don’t know when or how that changed, but I can’t deny it anymore. I think about you…all the fucking time.”
