Page 40 of Afterglow
“A virgin,” she echoes as if responding to my inner thought.
I fixate on our twined hands. My thumb rubs against a small stretch of flesh where her left hand’s third finger meets the knuckle. “I’m pathetic, I know.”
“You’re not pathetic,” Bea argues. “I’m just a slut.”
“Don’t say that.”
Her grasp on my hands deepens. “I’m joking, but I’m kinda not. I know who I am, in this part of my life anyway. I know what I like and who I’ve been with, and I’m not ashamed of it. You shouldn’t be ashamed of not being with anyone, either.”
I return a slow series of silent nods.
“I’m not good at a lot of things, but…I can teach you how. If you want.”
If I want? I want nothing and no one but her. If only she knew how badly and for how long. “Teach me?” If I haven’t turned into a tomato already, I’m about to.
“Though there’s one tiny little problem that would make it a little tricky.” Our clasped hands swing between us. “The thing is, Fletcher…”
She sucks in a long breath and releases it through her nose.
“I’ve got the hugest crush on you.”
Timeout. Holy shit. Holy, holy, holy shit.
Behraz Irani, woman of my dreams and filthy fantasies, has a crush on me?
Chapter 16
Yearning
Behraz
I’m suddenly feeling verypossessive of Fletcher Donovan.
He’s a shy, sweet, generous, incredibly hot hockey player who reads and has geeky quirks and is also a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. Like a unicorn in the wild.
If anyone gets to kiss him, or fuck him, or ride his perfectly rideable face, I want it to be me, and no one else. Good thing I offered up my body and then casually dropped I’m super into him. If he rejects me now, I’ll have to change my name and go into witness protection.
There’s too long a lull, and my fear grows, spreading like wildfire through my knotted yarn ball of a brain. I shift my grip on his hands, letting my thumb follow the speckled ridge of his knuckles. “Say something.”
Fletcher’s focus stays on a spot on the floor between our feet. “Just to be clear,um, I don’t know what I’m doing.” Same. His eyes flick upward, seeking contact. “But whatever it is, I know I want to be doing it with you.”
Oh, thank fuck.
“Fletcher,” I start, “Can I hug you now?”
He exhales through a soft smile. “Please.”
I release our hands to wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into the planes of his warm chest, wanting to hear the steady beating of the gentle heart beneath.
Fletcher sweeps my loose hair away from where it gathers over my shoulders and rests his chin atop my head, his arms cradling my back. We fit. I soak in the feeling: comfort, relief, content, all rolled into one. Nothing else matters; no world outside us exists.
An unexpected, high-pitched squeal from the hose has us jumping apart. We blush together. “Whoops, forgot to turn the water off.”
I loop the pipe back on its stand and collect my bouquet from Fletch before locking up and heading back to his truck.
On the quiet drive back, his hand finds mine. Despite its large size, the contact is tender. The callus of his thumb draws a circle onto the skin of my left hand’s ring finger, right above the knuckle. It’s the second time he’s done that, and I wonder why.
“What do you want for dinner?” Fletcher breaks the silence. “We can grab something on the way.”
