Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
He stops kissing me like an apology and kisses me like a demand instead.
Like the exclamation point at the end of a sentence.
He marches me across the foyer until my back hits the wall at the bottom of the stairs, a sharp exhale that he immediately licks from my mouth.
The hand on my neck holds me still, his other hand finding the slit in my dress, rucking up the skirt, his palm against the bare expanse of my thigh.
I shiver and let my knee fall open for him.
“You went back for the dress,” he says against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He grunts, and his teeth find my collarbone just as his fingers brush the line of my thin, delicate underwear.
I let my head drop against the wall, giving him more room, staring at the golden paper stars strewn across my ceiling.
Wallpaper scratches across my bare back and Nolan’s scruff brushes against my neck.
I’m nothing but sensation, pressed between him and the wall, my knee at his hip, his fingers teasing between my legs.
He brushes his knuckles against the front of my underwear and I sift my fingers through his hair.
“You look like a dream,” he murmurs.
“You don’t dream.” I laugh.
“I do. I dream of you.” His voice is low. “Every time I close my eyes, it’s you I see. You I want.”
I want to pause time right here. No past or future or foreboding consequences hanging over our heads. Just now. Just this.
Just us.
“I want you, too,” I whisper.
Nolan makes a shaky, pleased sound and presses his thumb to my chin, guiding my mouth back to his.
“I want to make a mess out of you.” His teeth catch and pull at my bottom lip. “Want to twist this dress up around your hips and get on my knees.”
I laugh breathlessly, my belly clenching tight. “And undo all my hard work?”
He nods. He gives me one more gentle press of his fingers between my legs and then withdraws his hand to safer territory at my hip.
The heat and frenzy of the moment passes us by, my nose buried in his neck, smelling the salt that’s somehow always on his skin.
I close my eyes and try to memorize everything about this moment.
The way I fit against him. The way his fingers tap-tap-tap across the curve of my hip, palm squeezing.
The way he holds me like he doesn’t want to let go.
I want to remember this. All of it.
I hope I remember.
“You make me want impossible things, Harriet.” I know the feeling. “Yeah.” I sigh. “You, too.”
I scratch my nails against his neck and he shivers.
Somewhere on the other side of the room, the ornaments on my tree rattle.
I peek over his shoulder and watch the lights twisted across the mantel of my fireplace.
They glow intermittently, gaining strength before dimming again.
I shift my hand against Nolan’s neck so I can feel the heavy pound of his pulse.
I realize with a small burst of pride that the lights dim and fade in time with his heartbeat.
I grin.
I wish I had magic, too. I bet the whole room would be dancing in the glow of my refurbished C9 bulbs.
Nolan leans back, brushing a quick kiss to the bridge of my nose. “You have your gala tonight.”
I sway in place. “I do. I should have let you know yesterday, but I was—” Frustrated. Irritated. Confused about my irritation and why some of the guilt I’ve carried for the better part of a decade has started melting into anger instead. “I was distracted.”
“It’s your mother’s gala, yes?”
“My family’s, technically, but it’s always been the crown jewel in her social calendar. She likes to make a big deal of it.”
“I’m sure she does,” he says. He studies my face. I let him, telling myself not to hide. His eyes crinkle at the corners, but the smile never reaches his mouth. “Let’s talk about last night.”
“What about it?”
He pulls his hand from beneath my skirt and presses his palm flat to the wall at my side instead, leaning heavily into my space. It’s like I have a Nolan-shaped clove-and-flannel-scented blanket.
“Your past,” he says. “That memory and your subsequent belief that you’ve somehow orchestrated a great betrayal worthy of the behavior you’ve received.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Nolan’s stern expression eases into something fond. He fingers a lock of hair that must have slipped free during our furious make-out and tucks it behind my ear. I close my eyes and drop my forehead against his chin, letting myself have this single moment, wishing I could stretch it out like taffy.
“I don’t want you to say anything,” he tells me, his voice rough. Like pebbles on a beach. “Not if you don’t want to. I, however, have a few things I’d like to say.”
I snort. “Of course you do.”
He taps me lightly on the curve of my ass in admonishment and my breath leaves me in a soft whoosh.
“The first time I met you,” he says slowly, his mouth moving against my forehead, “I thought you were insufferable.”
A surprised laugh tumbles out of me. “Is this a motivational speech or—”
“Hush. I’m not done.”
“Oh, good. Can’t wait to hear the rest.”
“I thought you were naive, petulant, and far too cheery.”
I drop my face against his shoulder and rock my forehead back and forth with a laugh. Only Nolan could deliver that sentence with enough fond exasperation to light a firecracker in the middle of my chest. His big palm settles at the base of my spine.
“Then I started spending more time with you—
“Haunting me,” I correct.
“—and I realized that you choose to be those things.”
I push myself away from him so I can see his face. I grin. “This might be the worst pep talk I’ve ever had.”
His eyes soften, twinkle lights reflected in the deep blue. Stars in the ocean. It’s the most ethereal he’s ever looked.
“You make the choice, Harriet. Every morning. You wake up and you pull on one of your colorful sweaters and you wander down a crooked street, smiling at everyone you see. You choose to be in a place where you can honor your aunt’s memory.
Where you’re doing work that feels important and good.
You made that choice. And despite the disappointments life has handed you—” The back of his hand brushes over the thin strap at my shoulder.
Down over the dip of my collarbones. Across the slight valley between my breasts.
He knocks lightly against the center of my chest. “Despite the disappointment and the hurt and the heartbreak, you choose to be these whimsical, colorful things.”
I release a slow, shuddering breath. I want to believe him so badly, but a lifetime of shaving myself down to fit in the boxes people create for me has me wobbling on the edge of indecision.
It’s easier for me to think I’ve done something to deserve my mother’s hostility because the alternative is devastating.
To be such a disappointment for no reason at all? Because my mother is intent on holding on to an old feud that started before I was born?
It’s easier to withstand her venom if I’ve done something to earn it.
Nolan can see it. I know he can. The corners of his mouth quirk up in a sad, understanding smile.
“You’re not the villain of your story.” He pushes off the wall and fiddles with the sleeve of his cuff. “And you’re also not going to this gala alone.”
“No?”
“Frankly, I’m insulted I didn’t receive an invite.”
“You don’t seem like a black-tie sort of guy.”
“Now I’m even more insulted. I look very good in a suit, thank you very much.”
“The dress code states tuxedos.”
“Lord Jesus and all the saints,” he mutters. “Fine.”
“There will be Christmas carols. Socialization. I wanted to spare you.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m already dead, Harriet. One night of socialization is hardly an inconvenience.”
“You love the dead jokes.”
“Not a joke.” A smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “I’m dead serious.”
I groan and lean my head against his chest as he laughs, a rough rumble that I press my ear to. His arms wrap around me and squeeze, his laugh trailing off to a happy sound as my hands brush across the strong planes of his back.
“Ask me.”
I dig my nose into his shirt. Asking for the things I want is still so difficult for me. Like using a torn muscle or putting weight on a bad knee.
“Want to come to my mother’s gala with me? There will be fancy champagne and too-small appetizers and awkward dancing. It’s going to be a miserable time.”
“Yes, Harriet,” he says with a hint of mischief, his mouth moving against my temple.
His body tenses and relaxes, the hot flare of his magic lifting the edge of my skirt.
His shirt is suddenly starchy and stiff, a bow tie nudging at my nose.
I lean back so I can fully take him in, draped in formal wear.
“Of course I’ll go.” His eyes crinkle in amusement as he adjusts his cuff links. Two small, round pieces of sea glass that match his eyes. My mouth goes dry. “How nice of you to invite me.”