Page 37 of Her Name in Red
The casualness of her invitation, the way she's sprawled on the couch like a cat—it's making my brain short-circuit. I've spent months thinking about being alone with her, and now that I am, I don't know what the fuck to do with my hands.
“Riggs,” she says, and the sound of my name in her mouth jolts me back to reality. “Sit the fuck down before you give yourself an aneurysm.”
I make my legs work, crossing to the couch in three strides. There's nowhere to sit that doesn't put me close enough to touch her, so I just commit, dropping down onto the cushion next to her. The couch dips under my weight, rolling her slightly toward me.
“You want a drink?” She asks, lifting her wineglass.
“I'll take a beer,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She doesn't get up like a normal person would. No, that would be too fucking straightforward for Maren Marino. Instead, she shifts onto her knees and begins to crawl across me to get to the other side of the couch.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I manage to choke out as her body slides over mine.
“Taking the scenic route,” she says, her voice a low purr that vibrates through me.
Time slows as she moves, her body a warm weight across my lap. Her t-shirt rides up with the movement, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs. I catch a glimpse of black lace underneath, and my brain short-circuits completely.
She pauses when she's fully across my lap, her face inches from mine, close enough that I can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny flecks of silver in her eyes. Her breath fans across my face, warm and wine-scented. For one insane moment, I think she's going to kiss me.
Instead, she smirks and completes her journey, sliding off me with a deliberate slowness that makes my jaw clench so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.
“Breathe, Rhodes,” she taunts, glancing back at me as she pads toward the fridge. “You're turning an interesting shade of purple.”
I force air into my lungs, watching her bend at the waist to reach into the fridge. The shirt rides up even higher, and I get another flash of black lace that's going to haunt my fucking dreams for weeks. My mouth goes dry as she straightens, beer in hand, the condensation making the bottle glisten under the kitchen's dim light.
“Here you go, captain,” she says, her voice pitched low.
But instead of handing it to me like a normal fucking person, she's climbing over me again. This time she moves slower, more deliberately, one knee on either side of my thighs as she straddles me. The cold bottle presses against my chest as she holds it there, not letting go, forcing me to reach up and take it from her.
I expect her to move away again, to retreat to her side of the couch, but she doesn't. Instead, she shifts, swinging her legs around so they're draped across my lap, her back against the arm of the couch. Her bare feet rest against my thigh, toes painted a deep, dark red that reminds me of dried blood.
She watches me take that first swig, her eyes tracking the movement of my throat as I swallow. There's something predatory in her gaze, like she's cataloging every reaction, every microexpression.
“Comfortable?” I manage to ask.
“Extremely,” she says, stretching the word out, her lips curving into that half-smile that never quite reaches her eyes.
She reaches out in front of her and grabs the remote from the coffee table.
The TV flickers to life, casting blue-white light across her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the hollow beneath her jaw. She navigates through streaming apps with practiced efficiency, thumb moving over buttons without looking. Some zombie show logo fills the screen, accompanied by the eerie theme music that sounds like the world ending in slow motion.
“You squeamish, Rhodesy?” she asks, eyes fixed on the screen as the episode starts. Her tone is casual, like she's asking if I want another beer, not if I can handle watching rotting corpses tear into human flesh.
I finally find my voice, my brain catching up to the fact that I'm sitting on Maren Marino's couch with her legs draped across my lap like this is something we do. Like this is normal.
Like we’re a fucking couple.
“If I was squeamish, I wouldn't be fucking playing hockey,” I shoot back, finding my footing in the familiar territory of being a smartass. My hand comes to rest on her ankle, thumb brushing against the delicate bone there. Two can play this game. “And I sure as fuck wouldn't be watching you kill people and helping you dispose of bodies now, would I?”
Her head whips toward me, eyes widening fractionally before narrowing again.
She doesn't pull away from my touch. Instead, she shifts slightly, her leg pressing more firmly against my hand, like she's daring me to keep going.
“You say the sweetest things,” she murmurs, and I swear her pupils dilate. “Maybe I should be concerned about what goes on in that head of yours.”
“Maybe you should, little nightmare. Maybe you should.”
Chapter 14
