Page 102 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I roll it down his impressive length, frowning a little at the tingling in my hands—that rope outside sucks—but when the curled edge comes into contact with the base of his penis, I’m all smiles.
I straddle him again, and ease backward toward my target.
“I love you,” I say, because it’s true and because I can. And it doesn’t matter that I’m still scared. The hope I have now is stronger than that fear. I may even be okay in the long run.
And if I’m not?
Ian holds a hand to the side of my face. I press against it, enjoying the scrape of the calluses just below his fingers. “I love you, too,” he says.
I have that. And it’s strong, too.
37
I CURL UP BEHIND IAN,pulling myself to his back with a grip around his waist. His laugh rumbles against me, and I smile, my cheeks pressing against the sleep mask. Between the skylights and the proximity of the city’s northernmost moon tower, eye coverings are a must the nights I sleep over. Which, in the month since my dramatic ascent to his window, is most nights.
“It’s good effort,” he says, “but I don’t think that ‘big spoon’ is in the cards for you.”
“How about a jet pack?” I ask, and his laughter jostles me again. I kiss his shoulder. “What time is it?”
“Four fifteen. I’m going to have to coach soon.”
“Boo, that.” I snuggle closer.
“I’ll get coffee going?”
I huff into his shoulder. “Less boo. But not a lot less.”
“Glad to see I rate above caffeine.”
“Only you.”
He squeezes the arm I’ve draped over him, and I squeeze him back before releasing him to his noble task. I hear the lamp onthe bedside table click on and lift the left side of the mask to peep at him. He pulls on a pair of shorts, cutting off my view of his impeccable backside. I whine my disappointment.
“Creeper.”
“Oh, are you shy now?” I laugh, pushing the sleep mask up and off my head, and rub my eyes. “You were flaunting it around here pretty casually last night, Mr. Let’s Try the Counter.”
He chuckles, and I hear him pad to the kitchen. “I think we can agree, that worked out pretty well.”
Grinning, I open my eyes—
My entire body flashes cold.No.
Wrong.
My vision is wrong.
I jerk upright, eyes wheeling around the room, desperate for something to explain the vacant sensation on my right side. I close my eyes, bringing my free hand up to cover my left. I recognize it as muscle memory; the first thing I did every morning during my bout with optic neuritis. I’m shaking so badly, my hand rustles against my lashes.
The coffee grinder starts. Ian says something, but I can’t make it out over the grinding and the blood in my ears and the screaming in my skull. Every muscle tenses. My hand starts to get clammy.
The grinder stops. A small, desperate sound escapes me, but I open my right eye.
The room is replaced by a shadowy haze.
The world falls out from beneath me.
But this time I’m caught.
