Page 30 of Your Sharpest Edge
“Sorry, I hate to break up your admiration at my windows, but why is there a sewing machine in my hallway?” he asked, and I spun around so fast before I erupted into laughter.
“I almost forgot.” I ran to grab the machine at the front door again before I brought it back down the hallway.
We both reached for the machine, our hands brushing, and a spark jolted through me. For a second, our fingers lingered, and time seemed to freeze before reality snapped us back. It was a stark contrast—being so touched out by my husband’s harshness, yet craving Alex’s warmth.
I grabbed the machine and stuck it on the counter in the kitchen before stepping back to admire it. “I bought a sewing machine.”
He came up next to me, crossing his hands over his chest and nodding a few times. Looking down at me, then back at the machine, he shook his head. “I see that.”
“You’re probably wondering why I brought it here?” I asked.
His mouth split into a grin. “I mean... yeah?”
I threw my hands in the air and then grabbed the machine. Lugging it to his wooden coffee table, I plopped myself on the brown carpet in front of it. I stared at the thread in the top of the machine, willing my fingers to be small enough to thread it. “You’re not going to be any help, but I can’t seem to thread it. I’ve watched a hundred YouTube videos on how to do it, and I think I get the general concept, but I have fat fingers and I can’t seem to?—”
Then he plopped next to me. He actually plopped, shook the whole coffee table, and stared at the machine before holding up his hands. “These bad boys are much larger, but I’ll do my best.”
“I think it’s my eyesight.” I complained.
“Show me what you’re trying to do?” he inquired.
With an earnest gaze, he followed my movements as I demonstrated the threading process. He nodded in understanding, and I nudged the machine toward him, watching intently as he focused on the task at hand. Despite his efforts, he encountered the same struggles I had faced.
“Damn, this is hard,” he muttered, his nose scrunching up slightly and his jaw clenching in concentration.
While my husband would scoff at the mere idea of sewing, here was someone willing to lend a hand. But if I was still with Layla, she’d help me, and I think that’s what friends do. Alex was my friend.
Ugh, the urge to reach out to him grew stronger. My fingers itched to trace the contours of his jawline, to feel the warmth of his skin. His furrowed brow and determined expression only added to his allure, igniting a spark within me that I struggled to contain. It was a reckless longing, forbidden and dangerous, yet undeniably intoxicating.
I fought against the overwhelming temptation, knowing such thoughts were forbidden, that I was bound by vows to another. But in that moment, as the tension crackled between us, the yearning for his warmth became impossible to ignore.
He leaned down, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking the tips, and all I thought about was his comment about pineapples a few months ago and how badly I’d wanted him to show me what it was like to feel a man’s lips against my sensitive parts.
My breathing had gone ragged, and I swear my brain was short-circuiting the longer I looked at him.
He paused, finger in his mouth, his eyes still intent on the machine, and asked, “You okay?”
Fuck. I’d been caught, embarrassingly so. “Totally fine.” I fibbed.
He raised his eyebrow in disbelief and then went back to focusing on the machine. “I think I got it.”
“Holy shit,” I exclaimed, sitting up straighter and turning my focus to the machine. I looked closer and realized he had managed to thread it. “You did it,” I squealed.
I turned toward him, wanting to hug him, but pulling back on that instinct. “Thank you,” I said softly.
His lips spread into a soft smile. “You’re welcome. Now, are you going to really tell me why a sewing machine is in my apartment and why you need me to thread it?”
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I can take it back. Sorry,” I murmured, a rush of self-consciousness washing over me.
But Alex shook his head adamantly. “No, Anastasia. I want you here.” His voice was gentle yet firm.
Our eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, a spark ignited deep within me, sending a surge of heat to my lower belly.
“I’m curious,” he added.
I averted my gaze as my fingers grazed the surface of the sewing machine. It represented my freedom, a precious semblance of independence that I clung to fiercely. With it, I’d fashion my own garments, a small act of defiance in the face of my constraints. The realization brought a lump to my throat, and I fought back the tears that threatened to spill over.
“I wanted to learn how to sew,” I confessed, my voice wavering slightly.
