Chapter 21. Ophelia #3
This is unlike him. I’ve seen a lot from Alex, but never much insecurity. “Alex. I’m miserable. Cynical. Grumpy. Glass half empty. In the future you envision for us, am I a cheerful, happy-go-lucky optimist who skips her way down the stairs every morning?”
He almost shudders, which makes me laugh. I don’t know why he is so charmed by my grumpiness. “Fuck no. You grumble all day.”
He snuffs out the cigarette on the metal arm of the bench and drags me onto his lap, rinsing his mouth with water from the glass.
His hands run over my thighs, over the soft fabric that covers them.
He leans into the curve of my neck and takes a slow inhale, like he needs me in his bloodstream more than the nicotine. “I’m frightened by my love for you.”
“I’m frightened by the idea of not having a slice of toast in the next five minutes.”
His laugh is warm and rumbly against my throat, and his fingers sink into my hips as though he can’t bear to let go. “One more minute.”
I drop a swift kiss to the top of his head. “If all you could ever offer me is quiet weekends and difficult mornings, that’s more than enough.”
“You’re just grumpy, though. I’m depressed. It’s a different beast. Depression is exhausting to be around. Grumpiness isn’t.”
“I know it’s a different beast, but it’s the same love.”
Finally, he meets my eyes. His are full of worry, but I don’t need a mirror to know that mine are full of certainty.
“The same love,” he repeats, like it’s an unfamiliar concept. Like he’d never considered the fact that I might love him just as unconditionally as he does me. Somewhere, two car horns beep. Someone shouts. Our eyes stay completely locked, like no one exists but us.
“DO YOU WANT anything for your birthday?” I ask, sitting on the stool at the kitchen island, watching Alex put four slices of bread in the toaster and push the button down.
“You. Backward. Forward. Sideways. In the shower. On my desk.”
On his desk. Fuck. My knees press together. “Alex.”
“You’re present enough for the next hundred birthdays, Ophelia.”
“If you don’t say something, I’ll have to go rogue. I’ll get you interpretive dancing lessons.”
He’s grinning, at last, as he pulls a jar of chocolate spread from the cupboard that very clearly says Mia’s – DO NOT TOUCH on it and opens it. “I’ll interpretive dance for you any day of the week, Twist. No need to pay for lessons.”
He dips a knife into the jar, then, standing between my legs, he holds it up for me to lick.
I run my tongue along the cool metal, watching his pupils dilate.
I’m hyperaware of the square inches where our bodies touch.
Hyperaware of the pulse that drums a thick, lazy rhythm in my neck.
Hyperaware of the way the width of his body forces my thighs apart, of how rough his jeans feel against me.
Time seems to slow, the distant tick tick tick of a clock in the hall sounding like it’s been submerged in treacle.
When I reach the top of the blunt blade and wrap my lips around the very tip to gather the chocolate there, a hoarse curse escapes him.
My pulse slides from my throat to somewhere deep in my belly. One of his hands grips the knife so hard that veins bulge over his forearm, and the other slides up the side of my neck. My breaths come thicker and faster, each one inflating this balloon of tension between us.
“Fuck, Ophelia,” he breathes out, as I swallow the chocolate on a quiet moan. The air is dense, like we’re in the thicket of a rainforest. His exhale is animalistic. Mine is frantic.
This is what he does to me. I’m unraveled.
“I desperately need a good reason not to fuck you right here on this island.”
My thighs squeeze, but with him between them, there’s nowhere for them to go. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
He hooks a finger in the front of my pajama shirt and tugs it forward, eyes dropping to the opening he’s just created.
The expression on his face is anything but gray.
I spread my legs wider so we’re flush against each other, breaths heaving, control on the brink of snapping.
The toaster pops, making us both jump.
I drag in a desperate inhale like I’ve just run a marathon.
He steps back, raking two hands through his hair and opening a drawer to retrieve a clean knife. “God, Ophelia. I can’t have any rational thoughts around you.”
“I’d definitely be up for fucking on the kitchen island.”
His back turns, muscular shoulders flexing as he spreads butter and chocolate onto all four slices and slides two over to me. “One night when it’s just us here. No kids.”
I put the knife in the sink while he pours me a cup of tea. If the atmosphere around us had a color, it’d be a soft lilac: those first wisps of sunrise on a quiet spring morning.
It spreads a yellow-orange sort of happiness to all the dark, dusty corners of my body.
There’s something so extraordinarily ordinary about us, feeling like my soul has been set alight while unloading the dishwasher beside him, feeling the cracks in my heart fuse shut while we wait the two minutes for our Cup Noodles to be ready.
Alex inhales his toast in four bites, practically hopping from foot to foot while I munch through mine, like a dog waiting for me to drop a crumb. The toast does a bad job of muffling my amusement.
“What?”
“You.”
Another little shuffle from foot to foot. “What about me?”
“You want me to finish so we can go upstairs and fuck.”
He stills, but he looks like he’s been caught red-handed, the faintest blush kissing his cheeks. “Do you wanna?”
I fold the entire second slice of toast into my mouth like a piece of bread-based origami, hoping that’s answer enough, and he lets out the most wonderful laugh, tossing me over his shoulder, carrying me out of the kitchen, and taking the stairs three at a time.