Page 40 of Heathens
He's carrying his briefcase, and it's swinging back and forth forcibly as he takes long steps forward. “Dinner with my family. Would you like to join me?“ He looks at me, seeing—actually seeing me—for the first time since we zoomed out of the cathedral. “You look beautiful, as always, by the way,“ he growls, saying it as if it bothers him.
What the hell is going on?
I stop when he walks down the stairs and into the Île de la Cité metro station a block away.
“I'm not dressed for meeting your family, Salem,“ I say, tugging at my plain gray t-shirt and dark jeans. I opted for my doc martens today—not exactly what I would've picked to meet his father and brothers for the first time.
He turns to face me a few stairs down; his eyebrows pulled together in concentration as he studies me again. His face softens. “You look wonderful.“ I open my mouth to say something—find a way to get out of it somehow—but he skips up the stairs separating us and grabs my hand gently. “Come on. It's pasta night.“ He looks at me with a set jaw, tightening his grip.
He doesn’t want me to go.
Heneedsme to go.
“Okay.“ I lace my fingers with his, smiling just a little bit when he sags with relief. “Don't you have mass later?“ He's been so busy; I figured he'd be helping with mass tonight. Plus, he's wearing his clerical shirt. We walk down the stairs hand in hand.
“Not tonight.”
I look up at him, and he seems... almost angry. But why? “Is everything okay?”
He gives me a weak smile and pulls out his wallet with his free hand when we reach the ticket machine. “Nothing that concerns you.” I pull back at his brush off, dropping his hand. He notices his error, shaking his head and sighing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—it came out wrong. I’m just... I’m having a moment.”
A line begins to form behind us, so I gesture to the machine. “It's fine. Let me get our tickets.“ I move my hand to reach into my purse, but he stops me, smiling. I laugh. “Fine. Go ahead and be a gentleman again.“
I take a step back and watch him buy us two roundtrip tickets on the RER A, heading northwest to a stop called Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Once the machine pops our tickets out—we have to transfer at the next metro, so Salem has also purchased those—he leads us through the turnstiles and into the warm, steamy station. Seeing as it's late afternoon on a holiday, the platform is surprisingly crowded. Salem places a hand on my lower back, and when we get to an open spot, I crane my neck to see when the next metro is coming.
“Two minutes,” I say. Someone pushes past us, and I trip over my feet, falling toward the edge of the platform—
Falling—
Falling—
A warm hand grabs my arm and pulls me up.
“Jesus, Lily,” he hisses, his face full of concern. “You could’ve—”
“I'm fine.“ I stop breathing as he pulls me closer still, gripping my shoulders with both of his hands. His nostrils flare, and his irises darken. The creases in his forehead are deep and pronounced and his gaze flicks to my lips for just a second. “I'm fine,“ I repeat, my breathing labored. Pressed up against him like this, I can feel his erratic heartbeat. “Tell me about this moment you're having,“ I say quickly, changing the subject.
We pull apart, but he doesn’t let me go—his hand drops and finds mine, squeezing it tightly. I swallow at the contact.
Everything about him—the way he feels, the way he smells, the way he speaks, the way he moves—all of that feels right and true and pure. I never want to let go.
He quirks one side of his mouth up and raises his eyebrows. “How about we forget about my problems for tonight.”
“Salem—”
“Lily.” His eyes bore into mine, twinkling with something I haven’t seen there before. Intention. Deliberation. Regret. Hunger.
A whoosh of air blows my hair out of my face as the metro car rushes past us. The snapping of the electric wires as the carriage rolls through, causing sparks—causing the light on the top of the station to flicker across Salem’s face.
In one instant, he’s watching me with that fervent hunger.
The next instant, he’s pushing me against the pillar, smashing his lips against mine. I don’t react or move—can’t—as he pins my hands behind me and pulls my waist into him firmly. Pushing... pulling, gripping, releasing. My insides tighten, constricting blood flow—all I can think, all I can process isSalem Salem Salem Salem Salem. And when his tongue parts my lips, I moan. The scent of incense and exhaust, the murmur of voices and the screeching of the metro brakes all fade away, and all I do isfeel. He's warm. Hard. Pressing against me—and I love everything about it. With each movement of his lips, I find myself pulled impossibly closer. I'm not sure if I'm moving myself or if he's doing it. He lets my hands go, and they fly everywhere, feeling, touching, soaking everything about him up.
People start pushing past us, and I disentangle myself from him and take a step back, looking down and touching my fingers to my lips—they're still tingling. People are boarding, and I'm afraid to look up, afraid to see regret or remorse or guilt on his face. Because as the doors scrape closed behind me, and the platform empties, I know what just happened was against the rules. Even thoughhewas the one who kissedme—there will be repercussions. I tilt my head up slowly, and what I see on his face shocks me.
Yearning.
Satisfaction.
