Page 47 of No Strings Attached
Her honesty cuts through the air like a blade, and I feel it deeply.
“I want the same, Amira. In the short time I’ve known you, I’ve felt like I could justbe.No performance. No mask. Just me.”
Her brows draw together slightly, though she doesn’t look away.
“That matters more to me than anything,” I continue. “You don’t treat me as a headline or a bank account. You talk to me like I’m a person. Like I’mreal.”
I watch her carefully, letting my hand rest on hers.
“I know it hasn’t been long. But being around you makes me want to stop running from the parts of myself I usually keep buried.”
The tension in Amira’s shoulders eases just enough for me to see the part of her that wants to believe me.
And I’ll give her every reason to.
“I don’t know everything about you yet, Mira. But if you let me in, I’ll do my best to be worthy of you.”
18
THAT PERFECT LITTLE ITCH
AMIRA
I’m so screwed.
Like,heart-sinking, stomach-flipping, brain-short-circuitingscrewed.
Henson is chewing his way into my chest like a worm in an apple, completely uninvited. And the worst part? I don’t even want to stop it. I canfeelmyself sinking.
I don’t know how this is happening, especially when my last relationship ended in a spectacular emotional dumpster fire not that long ago. Years of compromise and quiet resentment, of being asked to tone down or shrink or smooth the edges of who I am until I barely recognized the woman in the mirror.
I swore I was done with letting people in and trying to belong in someone else’s version of acceptable.
Yet here I am, sitting in a car next to a man who makes my skin buzz and my thoughts melt, wondering what it is about him that keeps breaking through.
Maybe it’s the way he listens and doesn’t flinch when I get honest. Or maybe it’s because something in his voice scratches that perfect little itch in my brain every time he says my name.
After dinner, Henson drives me home. The radio is low. The windows are fogged. My heart beats a little too fast.
“Want to come in?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
We don’t say much as we step inside the cottage. I toss my coat over the back of a chair and kick off my boots. He shrugs out of his own jacket, loosening the collar of his shirt.
“I’m gonna make tea,” I murmur, heading into the kitchen.
He follows, leaning against the opposite counter while I move around the small space as if we’ve done this many times before. As if I’m not vibrating under my skin.
I fill the kettle and flick it on, pulling down two mugs, avoiding his gaze like that’ll help me pretend my hands aren’t shaking.
I sit on the counter, and Henson steps between my legs.
His palms rest on my thighs, thumbs sweeping gently along the fabric of my dress.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all night.” He leans in to kiss me. I melt.
It starts soft, gentle—but it doesn’t stay that way. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. My fingers thread through his hair, tugging him to me, my back arching into his chest like my body needs more of him just to function.
