Page 84 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I angle my head up, and he runs his thumb over my lower lip. I close my eyes.Divine.“Fine. I put ChapStick on first, so the tape wouldn’t stick as much.”
“Good thinking.”
I smile as his thumb continues to stroke my lip, and curiosity gets the best of me. “Why’d you do this tonight?” I open my eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to reward Built Box with your presence.”
“There’s a chance that even a has-been like myself can have some industry pull. Might as well lend it. And after you asked me about not wanting to be involved, I realized that I hadn’t explained my reasons to Diego. Now he knows. Besides, I wanted to be around you.”
He makes the admission so freely that my jaw drops, but I turn it into a grin. “Is it because I’m soregal?”
He hooks a finger into the waistband of my shorts, and I let him tug me closer, reaching up to twine my arms around his neck. “You’re the one who declared herselfqueen.” He bends down, and I angle my head up for a kiss.
He stops just shy of my lips. “But I likesmitteneven better.”
I close the space between us.
I like smitten, too.
Too much.
30
“WHAT’S THE ONE ABOUTthe lady who slept with the corpse of her fiancé?” Ian asks.
Smiling, I turn in my desk chair to face him. He’s sitting in my throne, where he’s been thumbing through a collection of short stories while I finish an email. “‘A Rose for Emily.’ Faulkner.”
He nods, eyes distant. “We read it in class junior year, and you could track how quickly everyone finished by when they reacted to the ending. One of the cheerleaders audibly gagged.” He laughs, returning to the book. “That single iron-colored hair will haunt me forlife.”
“It’s a classic for a reason,” I say, lingering to indulge in the sight of him. He’s dressed almost exactly as he was the night we met, but in a darker sweater, and the T-shirt below doesn’t appear to be cutting off circulation. I ended up in the same halter dress, mostly to see if “break” me is bold enough to forgo boob tape. Turns out, I am!
Tonight is supposed to be our firstdatedate, which is hard to believe, given that we haven’t spent a night apart since Diego’s livestream last week. We usually end up here. He comes over fordinner, we help clean up and, after, hang out with the guys for a bit, streaming something on the TV or reading or working on assignments or projects. Last night, I finally showed themThe Proposal. I was right: They loved it.
It’s sweet and homey, and if I trade bubbly ladies for beefcakes, surprisingly close to what I’d been hoping for the day I spotted that glittery pink sign.
When we bid goodnight to my roommates, it rouses some cheeky commentary. Grant makes a retching noise, and Diego inevitably drops his line about wearing headphones. And while Ian and I do enjoy plenty of activities that would make his brother retch to consider, between the discomfort leading up to my period and the unkindness of menstruation itself, we haven’t gotten to do anything at the Dawghouse requiring soundproofing.
That’s where the privacy of Ian’s apartment comes in. Like yesterday, when I installed the suction-cup toothbrush caddy I’d bought him. I attached the caddy to the wall of his shower, highlighting the clever design—It holds the toothpaste, too! No more soap dish!—and he thanked me by stripping off my clothes and bringing me to glorious, nonpenetrative climax right there next to it. The caddy didn’t budge, not even when I grabbed on to it in the throes of orgasm. I may have to mention that when I post a product review; Ian did the same thing when I pounced on him, and frankly, that’s incredible performance for one little suction cup.
The subject of an actual date came up not long after. I left it all up to Ian, though I did put in a request for somewhere with burrata. And while I’m excited for whatever he has in store, a rain check may be in order. My period tapered off this morning, andI’m as pain-free as I get. Now, seeing him in my space, lounging with a book, I’m officially at my limit. I need this man inside of my body.
I am out of my mind with want for him. He turns a page, and I am riveted by the movement of his fingers, the care he takes with the worn paper. I glare at the whorish book, cradled in his capable hands, open and exposed to peruse at his leisure. I want to be in his hands! I want to be exposed! Peruseme!
He looks up, catching me creeping on him as I mentally slut-shame a Norton Anthology. “You ready to go?”
I start to nod, then shake my head.
His brows twitch down. “What’s up?”
“Did you make a reservation?”
“Ah—” His look turns wary. “No. It’s Sunday, so I figured we’d be okay…”
I take in a long breath. No reservation. He made no reservation, and this has done nothing to curb my appetite for him. Incredible.
“So, no time constraints?” I confirm.
“No?”
I stand and slowly start toward him. I can’t make it to dinner. I can barely make it across the room. This is happeningnow.
