Page 56 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“I—okay. Okay.” This return to reality has my head spinning. He doesn’t want me, or he’s being a gentleman, or some combination of the two. Except I can only focus on the first option, the devastation of finally having him so close before he ripped himself away.

And yet neither of us moves, as though we’re engaged in a silent challenge. Which one of us is going to break, give in, reach for the other?

Our breathing is still rough, his chest heaving with it in the semidark. His glasses are crooked. Hair mussed. That splash of maroon across his cheeks—I’d die to put my mouth on it. Beneath his belt, it’s extremely obvious his body wants something different from his brain. He must have an astonishing amount of self-control.

Well, I can do that too.

With shaky limbs, I try to lower myself from the counter. But without anything to hold me up, I stumble, losing my balance.

“Careful.” Wouter reaches for my arm, and the room tilts again, because evidently being this close to him is the equivalent of downing a half dozen tequila shots. “I can help you to your room, if—”

“Yeah—might be good,” I mumble, slouching against him as we shuffle down the hall. He keeps his arm around my waist to steady me, bending in what must be an uncomfortable position for him given his height.

The exhaustion hits me as we reach my room. I slump onto the duvet in a sitting position, glancing back up at him. “I shouldn’tsleep in jeans,” I say, popping the button but struggling to do much more than that.

There’s a flicker of tension in his jaw. Slowly, he inches forward. “Do you want—?” he asks, because we are only cut-off questions and awkward pauses now.

I nod.

He kneels down. Places a hand on either side of my hips and tugs. He’s so close to me again, that heady scent of him, and once the denim is in a puddle on the floor and I’m in my underwear and a sweater, he makes every effort to keep his gaze above my waist.

“This, too?” I hold up my arms. Gently, so as not to stretch the fabric, he pulls at the sleeves, removing the sweater and folding it on top of the dresser. The bra I’m wearing is basic nude cotton, my underwear similarly casual if far less sexy: a pair of briefs patterned with tiny hedgehogs.

The moon and streetlamps cast shadows across his face, this cinematic dusky light making him look like he’s from another era. In a way, he is.

With my last functioning brain cell, I force myself not to drag him down onto the bed with me. “You can look,” I tell him. Softly, so as not to spook him.

“It’s not a good idea.”

He peels back the duvet for me to slip beneath it, and it’s cozy and warm andbed. At first I think he’s going to slide in next to me—but of course, he doesn’t. My head is pounding and I’m going to feel like shit tomorrow, but Wouter van Leeuwen is tucking me in, and somehow that makes all of it worth it.

“Slaap lekker, Danika,” he says, pulling the duvet all the way up to my chin. When he bends toward my face, his mouth lands on my forehead. Lingers there for only a moment before he backs away and leaves the room.

I hear the sink turn on and off. The hum of his electric toothbrush.

Then the house goes quiet, and I’m all too aware of the fact that he’s on the other side of the wall. The first few nights here, I could barely sleep, worried about how much he might be able to hear. Then it became a comfort—I might have been thousands of miles from home, but I wasn’t alone.

Now the knowledge of where he’s sleeping makes me wired. Everything in me is tightly wound, craving release. I half expect him to rush back into the room, the top button of his jeans undone, shirt already tugged off. My hedgehog panties would be on the floor before he reached my bed.

But there’s only a piercing silence and a closed door, no light coming from underneath it.

A frustration starts at the base of my spine and curls low in my belly, almost a physical thing I could snap with my fingers. I trail a hand down my neck, replaying the way he touched me. Measured at first, and then more reckless. I let my head sink into the pillow as I pinch one aching nipple and then the other. With my other hand, I push aside the fabric of my panties, already damp. When I find the slickness between my thighs, I let out a silent moan. I’m already close—he could have so easily tipped me over.

That’s when I hear something on the other side of the wall.

A squeak of mattress springs. A rustle of bed sheets.

And then: the unmistakable sound of skin against skin.

My eyes fly open, my hand going still. There’s another metallic squeak, followed by a bitten-off groan that drags my pulse into a manic rhythm.

I have no idea if he heard me and that’s what made him reach for himself, or if he thinks I can’t hear him, or if hewantsme to hear him—but it’s suddenly very, very clear what’s happening in his room.

I imagine him sprawled out on his bed, muscles in his abdomen straining as he reaches downward, past that deep V. His hand on his cock would be an instant shot of relief, one that feels a little wrong at first, knowing I’m nearby, but too good to make himself stop. I want him to give in to every impolite urge he’s ever had. Every dirty thought. I touch myself the way I’m desperate for him to touch me, circle my fingers closer and closer,not too fast, not yet.

A breathy gasp falls from my lips, one I’m almost certain he can hear.

And—maybe I want him to.

---