Page 99 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

He meets my lips with a subtle groan. “Very happy.”

The moment I’m kissing him, I wonder how I just spent eight hours not kissing him. He teases my tongue with his, letting his hands spread wide across my hips so he can pull them against his. I can already tell this is going to get away from us.

“You promised we’d do more trial prep,” I pout.

Reasonably, we don’t need more trial prep. We went over the details of our defense for the entire two-hour stretch from Birmingham to Tupelo. We talked through tactics and played devil’s advocate, each attempting to tear down the other’s arguments and poke holes in the case. We’ve inspected this from every angle. It feels solid.

Still, the stakes are high. I know the courtroom will be full of cameras tomorrow. Every detail will be scrutinized, from the words I use to the outfit I choose to wear. Part of me is ready to head into battle. Another part of me, one I never would have let Quentin see before this weekend, is nervous.

“This is trial prep,” he defends, threading his fingers into my hair and running his thumb along my jaw. “I need you relaxed tomorrow. Feeling your absolute best. With all your needs properly met.”

I smile against his lips. “Aw. So you’re going to procure me a set of fresh contacts and order us DoorDash? You’re so thoughtful.”

“Yes,” he says, “but first I’m going to pour you a glass of wine and draw you a bath.”

He scoops me up, and I giggle in spite of myself.

“I’ve never been drawn a bath before. It makes me feel like I’m in one of those Victorian novels.”

“And you like this feeling?”

“Very much,” I murmur, kissing him again. “As long as you don’t, like, have me committed to the sanatorium for being a strong, independent woman.”

“Hmm. Tempting,” he teases.

I laugh again, playfully elbowing him as he sets me on the sink in my bathroom. I watch in mute awe as he follows through on his promise. He grabs me a glass of wine as the tub fills. He passes me a fluffy towel from the linen closet and asks if I want bath salt or bubbles (both, obviously). When I start to shimmy out of my shorts, he stops me.

“If you want food or contacts or any of these other things to happen, I need you to keep your clothes on until I’m out of the room.”

I bite my bottom lip, reveling in the absolute power I feel when he looks at me like this. I toy with the hem of my shirt, edging it up above my belly button.

“You’re just going to leave me in here all alone?” I watch his lids grow heavy, following the dip of his gaze to where my fingers trace the crease above my hip. “Naked?”

He wets his lips, eyes meeting mine with playful intensity. “I’m going to order the shrimp scampi from Maestoso, because I know it’s your favorite. I also know they don’t deliver on Sundays, and it’ll take about thirty-minutes to grab an order for pickup, and if I don’t feed you before eight o’clock you’ll get hangry.”

He drags his thumb across my bottom lip, and for a second I feel like it’s the only thing holding me up. I want to melt at his feet.

“While I’m doing that,” he continues, “I want you naked in this tub. And I want to know you can’t keep your hands off yourself when you’re in here thinking about all the ways you want me to make you come. Can you do that for me?”

The blush rises in my cheeks, and heat gathers between my thighs. I want this fire to consume me. I snag the front of his shirt, tugging him close enough to steal a kiss.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” I smirk.

Before he leaves, he clicks off the light, leaving me with the flicker of the vanilla candle on my vanity. It’s just as well: though I’ve somewhat adjusted to my current level of vision impairment, candlelight is easier on these tired eyes. He connects to the bluetooth speaker and hits play on that pop remix I made him listen to no less than ten times on our drive home. When I cut my gaze at him, he winks.

“Relax,” he insists. “I’ll be back.”

***

As much as I’m out of practice at relaxing, I vow to give it a try. I slip into the bubbles up to my collarbones, taking a long sip of wine and closing my eyes. The loop of my thoughts immediately cues up the slideshow of our weekend.

How angry I was when I pulled out of the parking garage.

How hopeless I felt each time I realized there was nothing but vacant ocean where Teddy’s boat should be.

How my mind raced to absorb the details he gave us this morning, and how I spent half the drive home struggling to organize them into something coherent.

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