Chapter 14 Beth #2
Within thirty minutes, I've subconsciously migrated away from the armrest and toward the middle cushion. I've pulled my knees up to my chest, angled slightly toward him. We're not quite touching, but we're close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him.
His presence's comfortable. It's a problem.
"She's going into the boat shed," I point out. "She's literally going into the boat shed."
"I need her to survive, though," Arthur says, eyes on the screen. "She's the only one with a personality."
"It's not like we don't know what's gonna happen."
I glance at him. He's watching the screen with his jaw propped on his fist, the light from the TV flickering over his face, and for a second, the movie becomes background noise. I'm looking at the way his forearm flexes where it holds his jaw up, my pulse doing something inconvenient.
So when the synth score suddenly shrieks and a shadow lunges out of the dark, I violently flinch backward, away from the screen, completely losing my center of gravity.
I topple sideways, crashing back-first squarely into Arthur's chest.
"Jesus!" I gasp.
He lets out a startled laugh, his arm dropping from the back of the couch to instinctively wrap around my waist, hauling me flush against him to keep me from pitching to the floor. "You good?"
I turn to glare at him, fully prepared to defend my dignity, but the words evaporate.
Suddenly, I am hyper-aware of the logistics of my current position.
My legs are tangled with his. My back is pressed against his chest. His hand is resting warm and heavy against my ribs, and he seems to have realized our logistics now, because his laugh is fading.
The TV flickers, casting a pale light across his face and highlighting the sudden, sharp focus in his eyes.
"Beth," he says. His voice is a low scrape.
If I stay on this couch for one more second, I am going to do something catastrophic. Like climb him like a tree. My pulse is practically beating out of my throat, and every single point where his body aligns with mine feels like it's actively catching fire.
I plant my hands on the edge of the center cushion and frantically shove myself upright, untangling my legs from his and nearly taking a throw pillow down to the floor with me.
"Water," I blurt out, sounding incredibly casual and not at all like a woman on the verge of spontaneous combustion. "I need water. So thirsty."
I flee into the kitchen and grab a glass from the cabinet.
I shove it under the fridge dispenser, and take a long, desperate gulp.
Get a grip, I tell myself, pressing the cold glass against my flushed cheek.
He’s your roommate. It was just a jump scare.
But my skin is still humming, tight and oversensitized.
The floorboards creak behind me. I lower the glass, turning around just as Arthur steps into the kitchen. He looks a little wrecked—his hair rumpled, his chest rising and falling a fraction too fast.
He doesn't say anything. He just walks straight toward me.
For a wild second, my breath hitches, thinking he's going to kiss me. Instead, he reaches right past me to grab a glass from the open cabinet. His chest brushes my shoulder, a fleeting, electrifying point of contact.
He fills his glass at the sink, leaning his hip against the counter right next to mine. He takes a long drink, lowers the cup, then looks at me again.
Then, he reaches out and gently pries the half-empty glass out of my trembling hand, sets it on the counter next to his, and then his fingers lightly trace the inside of my wrist.
A full-body shiver rips through me.
"Arthur," I breathe, leaning into him.
He slides his hands around my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the granite counter. My legs part on pure instinct, and he steps into the V of my thighs. The icy stone beneath me is a blinding contrast to the absolute furnace of his body pressing into mine.
When his mouth finally comes down on mine, I loop my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, chasing the heat. He tastes like mint and Dr. Pepper, and the way his hands grip my hips makes my brain completely short-circuit.
I let out a soft, helpless sound as his mouth moves to my jaw, his teeth lightly scraping the sensitive skin beneath my ear. His thumb sweeps under the hem of my shirt, charting a blazing path up my ribcage. I arch into him, my hands tangling in his hair.
"Don't stop," I say, which is not what I was planning to say. What I was planning to say was something mature and boundary-respecting.
His other hand drops to my hip, guiding me against him in a slow grind that makes my vision blur at the edges. I've got my nails in his shoulders. He's breathing hard.
His fingers trace down my stomach. They reach the waistband of my pants and hover there, and he looks up at me. His eyes are dark, blown, completely wrecked.
What I do next surprises us both, because my fingers wrap around his wrist, guiding his hand between my thighs. The second he reaches me, a shockwave of heat rockets through my system, and I jolt forward, burying my face in his neck and biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.
"God," he says, like I've done something to him and not the other way around.
I'd respond, but I've temporarily lost the capacity for language.
My hips chase his hand. I grab his wrist, not to stop him, just to hold on.
His mouth finds mine again and I'm shaking, pressing into his touch, his free arm locked around my back keeping me upright because I'm losing the ability to do it myself.
I fumble for him. He hisses when I get my hand around him, and his forehead drops against my shoulder.
"Fuck," he says, voice scraping bottom. I tighten my grip and his hips push up and his fingers press deeper and I'm right there, I'm so close—
BZZZZZZZ.
The apartment intercom screams through the quiet.
We both freeze, my fingers still locked in his hair, his hand still scorching hot against my ribs.
BZZZZZZZ. BZZZZZZZ. BZZZZZZZ.
Arthur lets his head drop forward, resting his forehead against my shoulder.
"You've got to be kidding me." He exhales a harsh breath, stepping back and running a hand through his hair to adjust himself.
I slide off the granite counter, my legs feeling like overcooked noodles, and hastily yank my shirt down.
I grab my water glass again, trying desperately to look like a woman simply hydrating in her kitchen, rather than someone who was just dismantled against the cabinetry.
He walks to the intercom and presses the button. "Yeah?"
The voice that comes through is tinny and frantic.
Arthur's expression changes. He glances back at me.
"Come up," he says into the intercom, and lets go of the button.