Page 43 of Play With Me

I reach up and cup her jaw, running a thumb along her cheekbone.

Nora sucks in a breath.

Okay, 70/30. In my favor. We could go to bed together; I could touch her like this and more. The way I suddenly want to right now. Our friendship is pretty much ruined anyway, so no risk there.

I draw my thumb lower, brushing it across the plump softness of her upper lip.

Then the voices outside amplify and a couple comes in, laughing, looking for booze.

I drop my hand.

“Sorry, we disturbing you?” the woman asks.

The man lets out a whistle. “Of course we were, sweetheart!” His eyes are dopey and drunk. “You could cut the tension in here with a butter knife!”

She shrieks like this is the funniest thing in the world. “A butter knife!”

I swing to the side to give them room, leaning my back against the counter next to Nora.

Jesus. What was I thinking? I haven’t touched a woman like that in years. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Women make me lose focus. Bad things happen when I lose focus.

“Sorry,” I say under my breath as they laugh and bash around in the cupboard. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” Nora whispers. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, either.” I slide my hand over so it’s next to hers on the counter behind us and cross my pinkie over hers. She blinks, her chest rising and falling hard with each breath.

“You didn’t.”

I look over at her. “The other time.”

Nora’s eyes meet mine. They’re wide. Beautiful. Questioning.

“There!” the woman cries. They’ve finally found something to use for wineglasses. Someone else comes in behind them, opening the fridge and digging around in the beer bottles.

I lean in. “I just wanted you to stay.”

I wait for her to say something, to get mad again maybe. But all she does is swallow. Then she says, “I need a drink.”

CHAPTER11

Nora

Iwake up to the sound of a chainsaw. A repetitive chainsaw starting and stopping. But somehow, I feel good. Cozy.

Except for the press of something behind my eyes. A headache maybe. Stupid chainsaw.

My mind tries to focus. There are no chainsaws in London, are there? I blink my eyes open.

The chainsaw rips again. Only, it’s not a chainsaw. There’s someone sprawled on his back in my bed, his chest lifting with a giant inhale.

Adrenaline explodes through me and I scramble backward. Only when I reach my hand behind me I hit only air. Then I gasp, because I’m falling backward.

I land with an ungraceful, painful thud of limbs on the wood floor of a bedroom.

My bedroom, I register.

Thankfully, my mattress and box spring are on a platform on the floor, so it’s not far to fall. It still hurts like a bitch though. I groan, pityingly as I pat around over my head for my glasses. I barely manage to pull them on when Jude’s face appears over the side of the bed. “Shit, Nora. You okay?” His voice is gravelly and he’s squinting. I don’t think he’s really awake.

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