Chapter 17 #2
And indeed, I’ve barely got the food warming in the oven, the finishing touches on the living room setup complete, and taken a shower when I hear him at the door. Smiling, I finish tying my hair back and leave the bathroom. I hope he has something pretty on underneath his clothes.
“Hello,” Oliver says when I open the door, leaning forward to kiss me. I inhale the scent of flowers as I return it, putting a hand on his cheek and feeling the damp strands of his hair tickle my fingers. He smiles at me and steals the words right from my head when he says, “You smell nice.”
Stepping back to let him inside, I reach for the container of what I assume are blueberry muffins. Oliver, distracted by the living room he walked into—dark but for candles and the fireplace—doesn’t fight me as I pull it away from him. Hand on his lower back, I nudge him further into the room.
“What’s going on?” he asks. Balancing the muffins on the back of the couch for a moment, I reach for his jacket. He lets me slip it off his shoulders and smiles again when I kiss his cheek.
“Dinner,” I remind him. “A date.”
This time, the smile brings the dimples along with it. Looking down at his cream-colored fisherman sweater and faded blue denim jeans, he jokes, “Well, it’s a good thing I dressed up, then.”
“Good thing,” I agree. We are, funnily enough, wearing almost the exact same thing, just in different colors.
He brushes a hand down my front and tugs on the hem of my sweater.
Because I’m happy I know him, and even happier that he’s here, I kiss him again, lingering this time around, enjoying the smell of flowers and the taste of blueberry.
Oliver’s been eating his baking, it would seem.
Trying to get Oliver to stay in the living room and not help me in the kitchen is about as hard as I imagine pulling teeth would be.
I’d told him I ordered food, so all that needed to be done was serving, which I could handle myself.
I’d also told him that the point of this evening was for him to relax and enjoy himself, to which he’d replied, “Exactly, so I’ll come help you! ”
“My date,” I remind him. “So I do everything for you.”
He’d blushed a little bit at that, cheeks depressing into dimples as his lips curved into a pleased, closed-mouth smile. He’d also stayed put, seated on the cushions I’d moved to the floor and situated around the coffee table in front of the fire.
Now, making my second trip from the kitchen to the living room, I’m proud of that decision.
I’ve been questioning all afternoon the plan to sit on the floor, thinking maybe it wouldn’t be romantic at all, but strange.
It was the right call, though. Eating at the dining room table would have felt strange and formal.
Too much of a deviation from what we usually do.
But like this, he can relax. And, I realize, give me something more tantalizing than the food to enjoy.
Oliver has one leg curled in and the other stretched out, socked foot bouncing slightly as I bring in the appetizers.
Leaned back on his hands, his shoulders stretch the fabric of his sweater taut, outlining the strong curves of muscle.
He’s got the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and I find it hard to look away from his forearms, dusted gold and freckled from the sun.
“This smells amazing,” he tells me, groaning.
“I haven’t eaten anything today but muffin batter.
” Settling across from him, I stretch my own leg out, pressing against Oliver’s.
I raise an eyebrow, making him laugh. “Okay, not just the batter. I also ate four of the muffins. I had to taste test, though! You can’t just bake things and not eat them, that’s madness.
What if I hadn’t tested them and then brought them over and they were too salty or something? ”
Snorting, I adjust the taper candles sitting in the center of the table. They’re blocking too much of his face.
“You’ve never,” I tell him, unable to picture a world where Oliver would botch a recipe. Even if he did, I doubt anyone would notice but him. He smiles cheekily, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Does, probably, since I’m always struck by the way Oliver seems to read my mind so easily.
He talks, foot pressed warm against the inside of my leg, as he eats.
He tells me about what he did today and the idea he came up with for the mudroom at his house.
He provides a charmingly in-depth history of mozzarella cheese, fork held aloft with a ball of it on the end for visual representation.
He asks me questions, and I answer them easily, more comfortable with Oliver than I can ever remember feeling in my life.
The darker it gets outside, the more shadows gather in here.
I’d turned the heat low, knowing we’d be sitting close to the fireplace and not wanting to toe the line between comfortable and too hot.
Oliver’s face glows warm in the firelight, cheeks pink, hair silver and gold.
I give myself a few minutes to sit with the words before I say them.
“You look beautiful.”
I expect a little bit of blushing. Maybe a self-conscious laugh or even a joke.
Perhaps a change of subject. What I don’t expect is for the soft, relaxed expression on Oliver’s face to tilt into something hungry.
He looks at me across the expanse of the coffee table—food, candles, and wine spread between us—and the sweater I’m wearing suddenly seems too hot.
I stare into his eyes, aware of the pounding of my heart and the buzz of anticipation humming in my groin, and realize I’m hungry, too, but that food will not be enough.
The burn spreads all the way down to my toes as Oliver puts his napkin on the table, fingers spread as he leans over and blows out the candles.
“Finished?” he asks. Not by half, but I nod anyway. Rising, I reach a hand out to him, gently pulling him to his feet.
The fire had burned low enough during dinner that it’s easy to put out.
Oliver clicks on a table lamp and, humming softly under his breath, stacks our plates together.
I don’t tell him not to help this time, as I think it’s in both of our best interests to get the food put away as quickly as possible.
Being around Oliver recently has become a study in self-control—a constant battle between wanting to touch him and kiss him and stare at him, but having to remember where we are and whom we are with.
Desire is foreign to me, and the feeling of losing control hits me hard at times like this.
I just want him so badly. It feels like too much to hold inside and far too much to keep to myself.
Tonight, though, I don’t have to. Oliver puts the leftovers away in the fridge as I load the dishwasher, brushing against me and touching my arm and meeting my eyes every time I look his way. The kitchen is a lot bigger than it feels right now, with the pair of us and so much want taking up space.
I rest my hand on Oliver’s back once more, palm pressing into the curve of his spine as we walk up the stairs.
He’s quiet, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
It feels a little like anticipation—the change in pressure as a thunderstorm forms or calm seas before a hurricane.
It doesn’t feel like silence because anything is wrong, but quiet because it’s not.
“I love this room,” Oliver says softly, touching his fingers to the bedspread and gazing around. I nod. I love it, too, although that’s something I really only notice when he’s in here with me. Before, it had merely been a space to sleep in.
Oliver slips into the bathroom as I turn on a single lamp, leaving it on the lowest level. I don’t want a dark room where I can only find Oliver through my fingertips. I want as close to the lighting as we had downstairs that I can get. I want him gilded gold.
Undressing slowly, I smile when Oliver joins me and reaches for his sweater. I’m reminded of how low I left the heat when his torso pebbles with cold, little bumps rising over his shoulders and down his arms. I trail my knuckles down his bicep, and he shivers. Maybe not the cold, then.
His eyes are knowing and playful when he flicks open the button on his jeans, sliding the zipper down slower than necessary.
I’m torn between knowing the best part is watching and wanting to help as he tucks his thumbs into the waist and slides them down his legs.
As I’d hoped earlier, there was something pretty hidden beneath the denim.
The jeans are tossed carelessly to the floor, and I reach to touch, my entire body vibrating like the string on a violin.
A thin red strap circles his abdomen, inches above his waist, holding together gauzy triangles of mesh that manage to cover him while still being erotically indecent.
He softly gasps when I trace the strap of red down to where it’s held in place around his thigh.
I watch the outline of his erection twitch beneath the lingerie.
When I look up and meet his eyes, they’re filled with so much heat I can feel the weight of his gaze.
Every inch of me thrums with pleasure when he moves close enough to kiss me, our bodies flush together. It’s shadows and smooth skin under calloused palms, soft gasps, and the smell of flowers. Everything is Oliver.
“Nils,” Oliver says, turning his face until his lips are near enough to my ear to tickle.
I’m the one shivering now, hands clenched tightly on his hips, pulling him against me.
I want to ask him to say it again, to say my name in that breathy, need-filled voice, and groan when he fulfills the silent request. “Nils?”
“Mm?” I hum to let him know I heard the question in his tone, sliding my hands up his sides and back down until my fingers coast over the swell of his ass.