Page 12 of Swept Away
When he looks at me, it feels like the universe has opened a trap under my feet and I’m about to fall.
A remnant of my old logical self tells me that thiscould go well in so many ways, and it could also end terribly.
I’m too confused to make a prediction.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks mellowly, and I’m right there, teetering on the edge.
Shamelessly dwelling.
Do I want him to leave?
Maybe?
I don’t know?
Not yet?
I suck in a long breath.
“You can have a drink and then leave,” I say, having a hard time pulling away from him but managing somehow to step back and almost fall over myself when I turn my back to him and head to the open kitchen.
“What would you like to drink?” I ask, not looking at him, horrified of how unsettled I am, and what the expression on my face might let out.
It’s like he wraps ropes around my body and pulls me back to him.
“Water is fine,” he says, suddenly sounding bored.
I secretly sigh with relief.
Good.
Bored is good.
Anything but that intensity in his eyes that gives me shivers.
Maybe we can talk a little more.
And maybe we can prolong whatever this is, but his hand should never touch my hair again.
Maybe we don’t need to do anything.
He drinks his water and leaves.
Yes, he leaves.
I look down as I open the refrigerator to fish out two bottles of water, but instead of checking the beverages on the shelf, I check my nipples.
I could cut glass with them. They are that hard.
And I still have that need in my body to have his hands on me.
And maybe more.
His breath over my neck.
His lips on my lips.
And his chest pressed into mine.
