Page 29 of Worth the Wait

I reach out slowly, my fingers brushing hers on the railing. Neither of us acknowledges the touch, but neither pulls away. Above us, a plane's lights blink steadily across the night sky, reminding us of all the different paths we might have taken, all the different directions still possible.

"We should get you home," I say finally, checking my watch. "It's late, and you need actual sleep, not just a catnap on legal briefs."

"I can manage?—"

"I know you can manage," I interrupt gently. "That's not the question. The question is whether you should have to."

She studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. A cab, then."

I flag one down easily, opening the door for her. When she's settled inside, I slide in beside her instead of closing the door, surprising us both.

"I can get home by myself," she protests, though there's no real conviction in her voice.

"I'm sure you can," I agree, giving the driver her address which I remember from her personnel file. "But humor me."

The cab pulls away from the curb, and suddenly we're acutely aware of how small the back seat is. Her thigh presses against mine, the warmth of her seeping through the fabric of my slacks. I rest my hand on my leg, inches from hers, and find myself tapping a slow rhythm with my fingers. The streetlights create a strobing effect as we drive, illuminating her profile in flashes—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lower lip, the elegant line of her neck.

It feels like we're teenagers again, testing boundaries, neither sure who will make the first move. The tension in the cab is electric, building with each block we travel. By the time we reach her apartment building, I can see the flush spreading across her chest, rising to her cheeks. Her breathing has quickened slightly, and she's avoided looking directly at me for the last five minutes.

I walk her to the front entrance of her building, maintaining a careful distance now that we're outside the intimate confines of the cab. Standing under the soft glow of the entrance light, she looks aroused and needy in a way that makes desire twist hot and insistent in my gut.

"Thank you," she says, her voice lower than usual. "For the explanation. And for making me take a break."

She hesitates, and I can see the question forming—the invitation upstairs hovering unspoken between us. I can almost taste how the night would unfold if I accepted: her body pressed against the wall inside her apartment door, my hands tangled in her hair, eight years of separation obliterated in a collision of need and memory.

Before she can voice it, I step back. "I should get going. Early meeting tomorrow."

Disappointment flashes across her face, quickly masked. "Right. Of course."

I turn to leave, taking three steps away before her voice stops me.

"Jackson?"

I look back, finding her still frozen in the doorway, uncertainty written across her features. She opens her mouth, then closes it again without speaking.

"It's not a good idea, Tarryn," I say quietly, answering her unasked question.

"Why not?" The directness of her question, the naked want in her eyes, makes my cock harden painfully against my zipper.

I check my watch, then meet her gaze with deliberate heat. "Because we have an eight a.m. client meeting tomorrow, and if I come upstairs with you right now, neither of us is getting any sleep tonight."

Her sharp intake of breath is audible in the quiet street. For a moment, I think she might push—might say sleep is overrated, might cross the distance between us and make the decision for us both. Instead, she swallows hard and nods.

"Good night, then."

"Good night, Tarryn."

I wait until she's safely inside before turning away, my body thrumming with unfulfilled desire and a bone-deep ache that will only ever be satisfied by her.

In my apartment,I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and sink onto my couch. The amber liquid burns a path down my throat but does nothing to extinguish the fire Tarryn kindled with no more than her proximity and the unspoken question in her eyes.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I call Marcus, my oldest friend from high school and the only person who knows the full story of Tarryn and me.

"This better be important," he answers, his voice gravelly with sleep. "It's almost two in the morning."

"I almost slept with Tarryn tonight," I say without preamble.

There's a rustle of bedsheets, then Marcus is fully awake. "Tarryn, Tarryn? The same Tarryn who turned you into a zombie for months after high school?"

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