Chapter 29 #2
He’s fully shirtless this time, wearing only a different pair of pants and a new cuff.
Clarke’s got her shirt rolled up and tucked into the band of her bra, and her pants have been replaced by a towel wrapped low around her hips.
It leaves the top part of the underwear she pulled on after qualifying (nothing embarrassing, thankfully, just purple stripes) exposed.
The air of the basin is cool on her bare skin.
At the photographer’s cue, she closes the distance to Julian. He is not cool. He is a pillar of heat at her back, barely a finger of space between them.
His hand snakes around front and splays low on her belly. The clasp of the cuff catches ever so slightly on her hip bone. She jumps.
“Sorry,” he says, voice low and so close to her ear that she feels the word as well as hears it. “You okay?”
“Stop asking me that. It’s a couple photos, and our faces aren’t even in them.
” Clarke’d been assured of that multiple times, and seen the concept art to prove it.
A woman’s torso from just below the breasts, Julian’s distinctively tattooed arm holding her close, the cuff front and center.
It’s all part of the story, apparently. Clarke can only assume the story is Buy this CuffLink, and you’ll get laid as often as Julian Casperi.
Julian getting laid is really not what she should be thinking about right now.
He backtracks on her body, briefly pressing his palm over the tiny scrape. If he means it to be soothing, it’s not. It’s also not soothing when he puts his hand back where the photographer wants it. She’s going to have his fingerprints seared into her skin by the time this is done.
Her earlier rationalization that flirting with Julian was safe because they were in public and it obviously wasn’t real has come back to bite her in the ass.
If this isn’t real, it shouldn’t be affecting her.
And if she pulls the plug, if she leaves, she’s as good as admitting that it is affecting her.
It’s affecting her. If Julian slides his hand about eight inches lower, he’ll find out exactly how much it’s affecting her.
The photographer clicks away. Clarke tries to breathe like it’s something she does every day. Julian’s breath rushes past her ear.
“Something’s not right,” the photographer says, peering at them. “Ah! Your arms, Ms. Clarke. Can you put them up? Above your head.”
Clarke’s arms are tense at her sides right now, and the one of Julian’s in the shot is wrapped over hers midway between shoulder and elbow.
He loosens up so she can thread her hand through.
There’s only one place for Clarke’s arms to go up there, and that’s around Julian’s neck.
The position puts an arch in her back, and she purposefully cants her hips forward so there isn’t contact between her butt and Julian’s groin.
It works until he steps in closer, the hand on her belly finding its place again, and brings their bodies flush. “Is this okay?”
He’s hard.
She can feel the length of him pressing into the base of her spine, right above the curve of her ass.
Biology and proximity, she tells herself, which is what she’s been telling herself for the past five minutes. We’re attracted to each other. That’s not news. It doesn’t change anything.
“Stop asking,” she says. “It’s okay.”
“I’m going to ask. I almost screwed this all up two weeks ago because I went too far. I’m going to ask, every time. Is this okay?”
The this in question is his thumb tracing an invisible line down from the bottom of her ribs. She shivers, both from the physical feeling and the emotional intimacy of what he just said. The implication that there are going to be more things he asks her consent for.
“Clarke?”
“Ticklish,” she lies.
“Liar,” he chides.
The brand rep says some words Clarke doesn’t really hear. Julian does, though, and moves, bringing his free hand up to wrap lightly around her biceps. That thumb starts tracing a line, too. Clarke’s shivering redoubles.
She’s going to need fresh underwear after this.
“Almost done,” Julian murmurs. He tucks the tips of his index and middle fingers just underneath the elastic of her panties. “Is this okay?”
They’re in public. There are cameras.
It takes every bit of willpower she has not to grab his wrist, stupid elaborate cuff and all, and shove his hand down to where she wants his fingers.
“Yes,” Clarke says, resolutely not thinking about everything else she might say yes to if he asked.
They’re released after a few more minutes. Julian takes his hands off Clarke’s body slowly, the pads of his fingers dragging lines of fire over her skin. The photographer calls him over to review the last shots; Clarke hightails it for the tent to put her clothes back on.
She gets her shirt down out of her bra, hops into her pants. She can hear Julian’s voice getting closer. She rushes toward the exit, shoes still in her hand, hoping to get out of here before he can get back and confront her about her hammering pulse and hitched breathing.
She doesn’t make it. He opens the flap of the tent just as she gets there, stopping her with a hand on her stomach overlaying exactly where he’d been touching her during the photo shoot.
All the heat that had just started to recede roars back in as he walks her backward, eyes molten. “Running away again?”
There’s a table behind Clarke, all the cuffs from today arranged in neat rows on their stands. Clarke bumps into and scrambles up onto it, trying to keep breathing room between them. The cuffs scatter. “We can’t do this here.”
Like outside, Julian doesn’t allow for breathing room. He comes in close, stopping just shy of making space for himself between Clarke’s knees. “Then where?”
“That’s not what I meant.” She grabs his wrists when he reaches for her, well aware that he’s letting her stop him. He’s leashing his strength at her request, and the feel of him flexing under her grip is intoxicating. “We’re friends, Julian.”
“And that’s enough for you? Being friends?” He might be allowing her to hold him at bay, but that doesn’t stop him devouring her with a gaze that sends delicious licks of flame across her skin. “I’d hate to think that I was leaving you…unsatisfied.”
It occurs to Clarke in this moment that Julian’s never really tried to seduce her before.
They’ve flirted, sure, with varying degrees of intent, but she’s never actually been on the receiving end of Julian Casperi going after what he wants.
It’s very nearly overwhelming, a full-body experience even though they’re barely touching, and it takes every ounce of willpower she has not to give in.
She’s not ready for this. Not ready for him. It would ruin them, if Clarke let this thing between them reach critical mass before she could come into it on equal footing and with a clear conscience.
“What would satisfy me is knowing I have a future in racing,” she says, letting the frustration of the reality she’s facing douse the sizzle.
Gods, she’s sick of rationalizing disappointment.
“You’re the Galilean Golden Boy, and I’m nowhere, with no good options.
If you and me got together, and then I got a seat somewhere, everyone would say I got it because you called in a favor. ”
“So let them say it! We’ll know it’s not true.”
“Perception matters in this sport. It’s why we’re here, pretending!”
Julian shifts from fire to stone. He takes a step to the side and carefully plants his palms on the table. “Are you still pretending?”
His voice is tinged with uncertainty and hurt, and Clarke can’t let that stand. She puts her hand over one of his on the table. “No, of course not. This is real. But I can’t give you more of me, not when I’m already giving so much away to everyone else.”
“I’m hearing ‘not yet,’ ” Julian says. He turns his hand over and threads their fingers together. “I’m not hearing ‘no.’ Is that—are you—”
“Clarke?” Julian and Clarke both jump, heads snapping toward the tent flap. Sara’s standing there, eyes averted. “Sorry, but we need to go. We’re going to be late to team dinner.”
Clarke slides off the table, glad for the excuse to leave before she had to answer what Julian was about to ask. She doesn’t know what she’d say. Julian is forever just putting it all out there verbally, but Clarke’s always been better with actions than words.
The tent flap falls shut behind Sara. On impulse, Clarke presses up onto her toes and pulls Julian into a hug. His arms come up to wrap around her lower back, and she feels his body relax in increments.
There’s comfort here, with her face tucked against his neck. There’s a promise of more, in the way he holds her close. There’s a wild urge to kiss him, when she reluctantly pulls away and his jaw skims past her cheekbone.
“I’ll see you on the track tomorrow,” he says quietly as she steps out of his reach.
A small, wry grin creeps onto Clarke’s face. “I’ll beat you on the track tomorrow.”
He gives her a playful scowl and puts his fingers on the clasp of his pants. “Get out of here before I change my mind about letting you leave.”
Clarke blushes, giggles, and flees.