Chapter Nineteen Madison
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Madison
“My day?” I ask, genuinely surprised by this question because usually when I’m alone with men the last thing they want to do is hear about my day. Which I’m realizing is so sad.
“Mm-hmm.” He sips the warm tea and his face says it all: disgusting herb water. “Tell me about it.”
“Umm. It was pretty boring. I just went and picked up the dishes from the pottery place.”
The grin that hits his mouth should be illegal. “Not possible. Tell me the part of the story you’re leaving out to make yourself seem more adult.”
I suck in a breath. “How do you know there’s a part I’m leaving out?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, I know you.” He says this like it’s obvious. But what I’m uncovering is that he knows me better than I know him—and that thought is suddenly unbearable.
And he’s right. I did leave out a big part of my day. “I was driving with my windows down and a wasp flew into the truck when I was at a four-way stop.”
“So you jumped out?” he asks with a knowing look.
“I jumped out,” I say, casually lifting my right shoulder. “And I forgot to put the truck in park.”
“Classic.”
“So then the hateful wasp follows me out of the truck because he’s dead set on stinging me, and by the time I get a safe distance from it, I see my truck rolling away. Luckily, there was no one else at the stop.”
“I can picture it perfectly,” he says and then tips backward, stretching to set the mug on my side table. Unfortunately, there are several glasses of water on it, so he has to twist, using both hands to play checkers with the water glasses until there’s room for the mug.
“So I run after my truck and I finally catch it and jump in before it can . . .” My words dry up in my mouth when my eyes lower and connect with James’s bare stomach.
His shirt has ridden up with his arms and .
. . I’m having flashbacks of him in the towel now.
Except this is worse, much worse, because he’s lying over my bed and taking up most of it with his large frame.
His torso is taut and tan and he owns a navel.
Good lord, James Huxley has a happy trail.
And one of those cut V-shapes on his lower abs.
I’ve been working overtime these last few weeks to block out the fact that James is a man.
Not just the guy I grew up with. But this week, I’ve had to work overtime to clamp down with serious intention on my attraction to him.
If I had to assign myself a grade on it, I would say I’ve been passing with a solid B so far.
But with him lying in front of me like this, I’m flunking.
Heat rushes to my core, between my thighs. I want him so much it hurts.
He finally slides the mug into an empty slot and then looks down the bed at me, aware that I’ve suddenly stopped talking.
I know what he sees: a woman staring at his stomach with lust burning in her eyes.
I clear my throat and blink my gaze away.
James slowly pushes himself back up to a sitting position. “Why’d you stop?”
Ogling you or talking? But the inflection in his voice tells me his question was intended as a double entendre. It’s so playful it curls under my skin and encourages me to keep going.
It’s now I realize that I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man like James. Someone who exudes masculinity while embracing tenderness. Care. I think he would be very attentive in bed.
I wobble on my feet at the thought. “I was just amazed you could reach the bedside table with your feet still on the floor over here. You’re taller than I realized.”
He’s searching my face as he says, “I’ve been eating my vegetables.”
“I see that.”
Oh no, this is not good. My skin is alive. It’s burning-hot and I am familiar with this sensation. I’m usually more than happy to give in to it with the guy who kindles it. I’d push his shoulders back onto the bed and climb over him. This wanting could all be fixed in a jiffy.
But for all the obvious reasons (i.e., friendship, work, commitment, family) I can’t do that. James and I could never be a casual fling.
“So you caught your truck before . . . ?” he says, reeling me back to my story.
But I’m low on oxygen, stuck in a haze of lust, hypersensitive to everything about James. His enormous hands splayed over his knees. His long eyelashes. Who knew he had those? The slight stubble on his jaw tonight. It would feel so good scraping against my neck. The insides of my thighs.
I need to go outside. Get air. Gulp it into my lungs until I’m sober again.
My voice is distant and thick when I say, “Before it could smash into a tree.”
He laughs. “Madison: one. Wasp: zero.”
“Well, not so much . . . it stung me. I was so flooded with adrenaline I didn’t notice it until I was driving home.” I twist a little and tug the hem of my shirt up to reveal an angry red mark on the back curve of my hip.
“Shit.” He leans so close I can feel his breath wash over the sting, and something painful has never felt so good.
“This looks like it hurts. Do you need some ice for it?” He lightly touches the area just beside the welt and I swear I nearly jump out of my skin.
Not because it hurts but because him touching me is suddenly the only thing I want out of life.
I release the shirt and it drapes back over me like a curtain closing. And scene. We’re done here.
I’m not good at subtlety or keeping thoughts in my head (a trait I learned from Emily), so I take a big step away from him and release them. “James . . . I don’t understand you lately.”
“Me?” He frowns and god help me even the way his legs jut out at these sturdy right angles while he manspreads at the bottom of my bed is turning me on. “How so?”
I press my fingers to my temples. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Suddenly you’re like loud music playing all the time.
You’re blaring and I can’t tune you out.
Is it . . . is it because I’m celibate and horny?
Like what’s happening to me? I can’t process you anymore.
” I break off, a comforting thought taking root. “Maybe I’m ovulating.”
His mouth is slightly open, eyes unblinking. He takes this information in the most James way possible: nodding and frowning in thought because he’s trying to map out how to help me. “Okay, I’m going to bypass the horny comment for now. Let’s talk about what’s confusing you, and I’ll clear it up.”
Yes, good. Logical. “I always thought that you . . . thought I was vaguely ridiculous and annoying, and those concepts were easy to process. But now you’re putting my seatbelt on and taking me to meet Della and sitting on my bed and asking to hear the stories that definitely make me sound ridiculous, yet you’re smiling. ”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never thought you were ridiculous or annoying. Trouble, yes. But never ridiculous.”
“You think I’m trouble?”
“I know you are, Madison.”
“You are trouble right now, James. Not me, you.” My voice is high. I must look like a caged animal pacing back and forth in front of him.
“How me?”
I make a gesture that encompasses his entire body. “Perching on my bed with all the swagger of a worldly cowboy! Reaching back and showing me your rib cage. I mean—fuck.” I say the explicit word like a sigh, my eyes rolling back like I took a hit of something illegal.
He starts to say something and then changes his mind, beginning again. “I . . . didn’t know you were interested in my rib cage.”
I stop moving and stare hard at his face, willing him to understand that this is bad.
“Point is, James . . . I’m in a very curious state right now, and .
. .” I swallow as he stands from the bed and moves closer to me, a mischievous grin on his perfect mouth.
“I also definitely think I’m ovulating and it’s just making me .
. . well, I’m a horndog, okay? And your boots are so .
. .” He’s still getting closer. “Heavy.”
A grin slants his mouth. “You can’t be suggesting that the weight of my boots is sexy.”
“The sound would make an incredible erotic ASMR.”
His smile is positively indulgent. Decadent dimples on either side of his mouth. “Should I take them off? To negate any trouble?”
My eyes are slits. “You’re enjoying this.”
He’s getting closer still. “How about my shirt? Should I take that off too, to be safe?”
Oh good. He’s teasing now. “It’s not nice to taunt someone burning up with ovulation lust.”
But actually, I can handle the teasing. It’s familiar and safe.
James gets closer still, until we’re nearly chest to chest. “You know what I think?” he says quietly, face tipping down toward my ear. “I think you should let me kiss you. See if it gets it out of your system?”
That sounds like a terrible idea. And just the sort of thing I love.
My body is already humming in agreement. Yes. I nod, staring at his mouth. That is just the thing to fix me.
He’ll kiss me and I’ll realize it feels like kissing my cousin, and I’ll never want to do it again.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, and I’m practically trembling now. “I want to hear you say it.”
I swallow. “Yes, I want you to kiss me, James.”
He hesitates only a beat. The air pulses around us, and I hear blood whooshing in my ears.
And then . . . James Huxley turns his hat backward before both hands come up to cradle my face, fingers dipping into my hair.
He holds me like I’m fragile. Like he’s scared I might break.
His dark eyes drop to my mouth, and his thumb trails across my bottom lip.
I’ve never felt more alive to someone’s touch.
And I know I’m in trouble because just his thumb against my mouth feels like too much.
His head dips, mouth hovering over mine for an excruciating length of time.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask, sounding breathless. Desperate.
“I’m not waiting. I’m savoring.”
Oh my god. Why would he say that?
Then he closes the gap. His mouth presses into mine.
The first touch is heady. It’s James, my mind screams. But instead of it being a warning, it’s a victory cry. I’m alert. Tuned in to every detail. His hands. His body heat. His scent. The way my body melts into him because somehow I feel both safe and alive.
He pulls away just enough to lean in again, mouth soft, head tilting to explore a new angle, but our lips don’t part. I get the sense it’s intentional.
This is only a sample. A little taste to curb my appetite.
Little does he know, it’s got me starving.
I want to run my tongue over his soft lips. Bite them into my mouth. I want those hands, still holding my face, to slide down and scrape over every inch of me. I am burning alive.
And just as I’m about to loop my arms around his neck and beg him to kiss me harder, he pulls away.
His breathing is even, but his pupils are blown wide. He swallows, eyes dragging to my lips one last time before his hands fall away. I want to whimper at the loss of his touch.
“There.” His voice is a rasp. “Cured?”
I press my lips together and nod. I can’t talk. I might never be able to again.
“Good.” He backs away, eyes lingering on me for another moment like he’s assessing whether or not I’m okay, and when he’s satisfied by whatever he’s seen, he pulls his hat forward again and goes to the door.
“Good night, Madison.”
“Good night, James.”
I sigh and sag against the wall the moment the door closes behind him, because now I know without a doubt that I am not just attracted to James; I have a gigantic thing for him. And that makes this twice as complicated.