Page 30 of Rules in Love
“Maybe, yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.” I wasn’t sorry.
I don’t think she was either. Her soft body molded around mine. The rolling became mutual grinding, and I traced the lines of her neck with the tip of my nose. Her skin was damp, and smelled of rain, and felt so, so soft. I was desperate to take a bite, just a tiny nibble beneath her ear. Like she knew my thoughts, she rolled her head back and to the side, exposing the exact spot. Just as my lips parted, fate interjected. The cookie lid spontaneously popped open, half tumbled out and crumbled against our feet. The kettle bubbled and whistled, demanding attention, and the almost horizontal rain smashed so hard against the windows I feared the glass would shatter. But we, a bare-chested man and a dirty, wet woman, remained rooted to the ground beneath us like two century-old Elms in Central Park.
“I guess you better get that kettle.” I gripped her tighter, my hand dropping to her ass. “I should clean up the cookie mess too.”
“No, don’t. The dog will get it.”
“You have a dog?”
“No. I just don’t want to let go of you.”
The damn kettle sounded and smelled like it was boiling dry. Scarlett smiled, bit her lip, then looked over her shoulder. “Hmm, maybe I better get it.” Feeling her pull away hurt, and it wouldn’t do.
I claimed her waist again, ran my hand down over her ass, gathered her skirt in my fingers and caressed her pebbled skin. We were so close I could feel her heat and almost taste her and that bloody apple. She inhaled deeply, held her breath, and then sighed out my name as she rolled against me. “Finn.”
Something flicked inside me. Perhaps just hearing my name reminded me of myself…of my promise. “I—I should go,” I stammered. But I didn’t. I didn’t release her. I didn’t take my eyes off the fire in hers.
“If you must.”
“I feel like I should.”
“Yes, you already said that.” She stretched and stood on her tiptoes. Her lips ghosted mine. I could feel her shake.
Is she wet for me?
Fuck me. I wanted to find out. My fingers were right there. Just a twist of my wrist and an inch lower and I could slip up the inside of her thigh.All I had to do was give in.
I have loved him my whole life… Your daddy and I will always be happy.
“Fuck. Fuck. I can’t… I have to…go…the car.” Shaking the voices from my head like water from Scarlett’s non-existent dog, I intended to step away, but Scarlett, seeming to sense my retreat, released a breathy no and took a hold of my belt.
I took her hands in mine, raised them to my lips, and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles. “It’s for the best. See you tomorrow, Red.”
The first day Scarlett and I were assigned to work together, she’d left for the day on a promise. “I’m ready if you are. I’ll see you tomorrow, and then we begin.”
I didn’t see Scarlett for a week.
Last night, I’d run from her house with the parting words, “See you tomorrow, Red,” but I didn’t see her the next day or the next, and not because I was a cowardly lion—which I totally was—but because I had fucking chicken pox. I had no idea where I caught them, but I was covered head to toe.
Did you know adults with chicken pox are more likely to be admitted to hospitals than kids? Me neither, but I did after doctor-Googling all afternoon on my third day at home. I felt like shit, was covered head to toe in itchy spots, and was deeply concerned that the headache I was nursing was actually encephalitis. Iris was faring much better than her pitiful dad, and she frequently reminded me of that fact. As did Evie.
“Would you stop Googling your symptoms? I swear to God, you’re a bloody hypochondriac, Finn.” I was then hit with a tea towel while she looked over my shoulder.
“Evie, you should be nice to me while you can. According to John Hopkins, death is a symptom. DEATH. Fuck, so are infertility and impotence. I dunno which is worse.”
That made her laugh but didn’t stop her from calling me a pathetic baby and asking if my deadly disease also manifested as male moodiness. Perhaps it was the brain infection kicking in, but I didn’t take the insults well. I turned my nose and took myself off to bed to rest and sulk.
My sub-par frame of mind was obviously affected by my possibly fatal condition but also from pining. Visions of rosy, flushed cheeks and red lips. Heaving boobs in pink bras and soft lace knickers had been my constant companion, as was a massive boner should I dwell on either of them for too long. So far, so good with the impotence, I guessed.
Hitting shuffle on the most depressing playlist I could source, I buried my face into my pillow. Three bars into Adele’s “Hello”, my phone vibrated and grunted at me like Peppa Pig’s bloody dad, scaring the absolute bejesus out of me.
“Iris! Stop changing my ringtones.”
“I didn’t, Daddy.”
“My message tone, either!”
“Oh. Okay. Sowwy, Daddy.”
