Page 44 of That Fake Feeling
“Outand about?”Itry to hold in a laugh. “Sleeping?”
“Lovely,Rose.Beautiful.”Thecamera clicks, clicks, clicks.
Igaze intoConnor’ssmiling eyes and remember the sadnessIsaw behind them inCentralPark.Thesame sadness that was there again when he wandered into the living room earlier, intent on ruining the day.It’sgood to see it gone again.
“Doyou meanhibernating?”Iask him.
“Oh, okay, littleMissTeacherwith your correct words.”
Herests his elbow on the windowsill and pops his hip toward the camera.Hotpose.
“Anyway,” he says, “there’s always five of those squirrels, and every timeIsee them,Ithink that’s what it must have been like for my mom every day when me, my two brothers, and two cousins were at the dinner table.Fivehungry bellies and ten little paws clamoring for food.”
Hemakes a toothy squirrel face and waggles his fingers like grabby paws.
“Nothelpful,Connor,” says the photographer. “Nothelpful.”
Ican’t help but laugh asIpush his hands down. “Stopit.”
Thewoman pulls a head of broccoli from her bag, breaks off chunks, and goes down the line of squirrels handing them a piece each.
Connorstraightens and places his mug on the windowsill. “Oh, no.Actually,Itake it back.”
Hewraps his arm around my waist and pulls me to his side.It’swarm, comfortable, and secure.AndIfit perfectly.Thatgooey sensation bubbling inside me might be happiness.Iplace my mug next to his and hook my hand over his fabulous shoulder.
“They’renot like us five at all,” he continues. “Wewould never have been that happy to be fed broccoli.”
Aswe both laugh,Irun my hand down his back, exactly howI’dimagined a moment ago.Hisskin is smooth, the muscles underneath it firm.
“Fabuloussnuggle.Fabulous,” the photographer says.
Iturn from the squirrel scene to look up atConnor.
Oureyes meet.
Ourlaughter halts as we both freeze.
Tremblessurge between my heart and my belly.
Ishould look away.ButIcan’t.
Thisis a different kind of look.Adifferent kind of eye contact.Adifferent kind of sensation welling within me.Notthe sheer lust of feeling his hardness against my butt, but something more tender, more intimate, based on a shared joke and a tiny glimpse into his childhood.
“Kissplease, folks.”Thephotographer says it as if he’s ordering a ham sandwich. “Wehaven’t had a kiss yet.Onekiss, then we’ll be done.”
Connor’seyes remain fixed on mine.
Hepushes his hair back, leaving tracks between the sunlit strands.Onepiece defies his will and flops right back onto his forehead.
Oh, what would it be like if those fingers were thrust intomyhair?Goodis how it would be.Overwhelminglygood.Clit-tinglingly good.
Myinsides quiver as he pulls me tighter to him, pressing every inch of my side against him.Somehow, it’s way more intimate than what happened downstairs.
Forthe last few days,I’vedone everythingIcan to suppress thoughts of our bodies locked together.Butthey’ve kept forcing their way back up, like helium balloons that refuse to be held down.
Nervesshiver up and down my spine asIrun my fingers through the baby-soft fair hair on his chest and bring my hand to rest on his thumping heart.
Hestrokes the backs of his fingers down my cheek and tips up my chin as he leans down toward me.
