Page 57 of Booked for the Holidays
“Shit,” she curses and my arms go up instinctively, poised to catch her.
“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” I ask.
“This is my first time looking down and it didn’t feel this high when I climbed up an hour ago.”
Fuck.Her fear of heights. How did I forget? Why the hell did she go up there in the first place?
She’s stopped moving. Her chin is raised toward the sky and her hands grip the rails of the ladder. I can tell she’s petrified. Her muscles are rigid, her spine is straight. I think she’s shaking, too.
Fucking fuck.
“I don’t think I can do it,” Bridget continues. Still, she hasn’t budged, and my panic is creeping toward hysteria.
“Bridget. I want you to listen to me. I’m here. I’m not far. You can hear me, right?”
“Y-yes.”
“Seven steps and I’ll be able to grab you. Let’s take them one at a time. I want you to look directly in front of you, not down. You don’t need to look for me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise. I’ve got you. You’re going to be safe.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll tell you where you need to put your foot. Do you think you can do that?”
“I-I’ll try.”
“Turn your body so you’re pushing against the–yes. Perfect. Just like that. Okay, right foot first. Take your time, princess. I’m here.”
The term of endearment slips out. It’s a gentle roll off my tongue, a wave on a beach during low tide. Soft, precious, it’s unintentional. Except… as she makes the step down, I see her shoulders relax. Marginally, but enough to know she liked it.
“There we go. One down. Six to go. Left foot now.”
The whole thing takes ten minutes. She moves slowly, with precision, and I do my best to keep my voice neutral, not spiked with concern as the rain intensifies and the rumbles grow closer.
Soon, she’s close enough to touch. I reach out, my shaky palm hovering above her lower back. My fingers float across the soaked fabric bunching near the base of her spine. I grab it, hard, to have a grip on her.
“I’m going to touch you now.”
“Touch away.” She’s breathless, from exertion? Fear? Something… darker?
I kick my foot up on the bottom step and grasp her hips, just below her waist. My fingers dig into her skin, hard. She’s three rungs away from the ground now. My thumb rubs up her vertebrae, an apologetic gesture for my berating earlier.
“Good girl, Bridget. You’re doing great. Almost there.”
I barely make out the soft gasp, I almost miss the way her shoulders roll back, inching closer to me. The tilt of her head, neck exposed.
Fuck me,she likes to be praised.
The night of the book club, over the laughter and chatter, I heard her sharing the book she enjoyed. She liked when the fictional man took control in the bedroom, encouraging and praising his girl along the way. I didn’t think the fascination would translate to tasks outside closed doors, to a simple command. Here I am, noticing her body’s reaction, and trying to find a way to say it again.
At the final step I yank her away from the death trap. My arms wind around her, palm splayed out across her stomach. Her back is flush against my chest and she’s shaking. Freezing cold, drenched and miserable. Instinctively, my arms tighten, giving her body warmth. Heat. Whatever she needs. Ten seconds on the ground and she hasn’t pulled away, staying in my hold. Tucked into my body, protected from the world. Her head drops to my shoulder and she shifts, backside pressing into front of my jeans.
I swallow, trying to find my voice and not let out a moan. “Bridget.” My other hand runs up her arm, from her fingers to her shoulders and back again, traversing over a forest of goosebumps.
She spins in my hold, a graceful maneuver. Retreating under the awning to hide from the downpour, she leans against the exterior of the shop. Her shoulder blades press into the brick, and…goddammit, this position isn’t any better. I can see the rise and fall of her chest, working in overdrive. The pointed peaks of her nipples, hard and visible through the thin material of her dress. Her eyes widen, the hazel darkening the longer she stares at me with a parted mouth.
