Chapter 18
“Dress” - Taylor Swift
Saylor
I force myself to focus. Rhett’s mouth is still hovering over my skin, his hot breath blazing a trail of desire down the entire length of my body.
Leaning forward, I break the contact while my heart begs him to never stop touching me, never stop kissing me, never stop giving me hope that there’s more for me than the future I’ve created for myself.
My feet move me away from the sofa, while my heart is still very much curled in Rhett’s arms. I glance back at him. “I’m going to get ready for bed.” It isn’t until I’m walking to the bedroom that I realize that it sounded like an invitation.
Once I’m ensconced in the tiny bathroom, where I’m safe from my own devious intentions, I look at myself in the mirror for a pep talk. “Nothing is going to happen,” I say under my breath to my reflection. “You are going to go out there, crawl into bed as usual, and keep your hands to yourself.”
The devil on my shoulder pipes up. What would it hurt to get it out of our systems?
I shoot him a nasty glare. “I’ve seen the movies. There’s no such thing.”
So don’t read anything into it. Just sex, nothing more.
I shake my head as I squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush. “That might work for some people, but it won’t work for me.”
I’ve had sex with exactly three men in my lifetime, and one of those was a one-night stand that was mediocre at best. For years, it’s bugged me that I can’t remember if his name was Mike or Mark.
Can I have sex again that doesn’t mean anything? Yeah, probably. Can I have sex with Rhett Cole without it meaning anything?
The odds are not in my favor.
I slip Rhett’s T-shirt over my head, inhaling his scent one last time before tugging at the zipper of my dress.
It’s the black designer one he bought for me our first night in New York.
I wore it tonight in honor of his dad being there, but I have major regrets as soon as the zipper gets stuck partway down.
I’ve always scoffed at girls whose zippers “get stuck.” I mean, come on.
We all know that’s just an excuse to get a guy to unzip you.
But after struggling for several minutes with the bloody thing, which managed to snag in the worst possible place—right between my shoulder blades, where I can’t reach it properly—I have to admit defeat.
I can only hope that Rhett doesn’t feel the same way about stuck zippers as I do and take this as further invitation for something to happen.
Opening the door quietly, I see him sitting on his side of the bed, ankles crossed, phone in his hand. He glances up, and I grimace, then walk in, clutching my dress against me as though it might decide to flee my body of its own volition.
I turn my back to him. “Do you mind?” I say, holding my hair out of the way.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed to take a look. “God, woman. What were you doing to this thing?”
“This is why I never wear dresses,” I mutter.
His fingers brush against my bare back as he fiddles with the zipper. The touch feels electric, and I imagine what it would feel like to have those hands on every inch of my skin. Would he move slow or fast? Be rough or gentle?
Finally, the telltale whir of the zipper sounds, and cool air floats through the open back of my dress. Before I can thank Rhett, I feel his thumb moving over a scar on my lower back. “What’s this?” he says, his voice little more than a breath.
My nerves stand at full attention as he strokes the three-inch mark. “Just an old scar,” I say. “Thanks for your help.” I try to move away, but he puts a hand on my stomach to hold me in place.
“What happened?”
I dart a glance at him over my shoulder. I can’t be hurt that he doesn’t remember. It was eleven years ago. Why would he? “A stack of canoes fell over—”
“—right on top of you,” he finishes. “I forgot about that.”
I slip out of his hands before they can make me lose all common sense. “At least you were a gentleman and saved me.”
He snorts. “After snogging you behind the canoes, I think it was only proper that I pulled you out from beneath them when they toppled.”
“Pretty sure we did more than kiss back there.” A blush climbs my neck and settles in my cheeks.
It only takes a hop, skip, and a jump to remember exactly how I felt every time Rhett pulled me aside to kiss me—among other things—as if he couldn’t possibly get enough of me in the short time we had together.
If I had known then how much he would only improve in both looks and skills . . .
“Thanks for the zipper,” I say, and slip back into the bathroom. The more distance between us, the better. Maybe I can think of an excuse to sleep on the sofa tonight.
When I emerge ten minutes later, Rhett is on the bed again, but he’s changed into a long-sleeve gray T-shirt and loose black sweatpants. He looks casual and cozy. He looks like home. Before I’ve fully processed the idea, I snap a photo with my phone.
He looks up. “What was that?”
I open my editing app. “A picture.”
He’s out of bed in a flash. I don’t realize his intentions until his fingers are already on my phone. “Let me see.”
I show him the photo.
“That’s terrible. Delete it.”
I tighten my grip. “No way. People need to see that you own sweatpants. Besides, it’s not terrible.” It’s actually quite good, but it does paint him in a different light than usual, more boyfriend material than gorgeous fuckboy. I have yet to decide which I prefer.
“Saylor.” There’s that warning tone again, which sets off a clanging alarm bell inside me. I have the sudden urge to see what he’ll do if I press him.
Pulling my hand from his, I hold the phone away. “I’m going to post it.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, and casually reaches over my head for my arm. Damn him for being so tall. His fingers snake around my wrist and tug it down with hardly any effort.
I let out a laugh-scream as I spin away from him, turning my body so he can’t steal the phone.
His hands clamp around my middle, holding me in place as I try to squirm away.
Then he does the absolute worst thing possible.
His fingers work their way into my sides, and I do my damndest not to let it affect me, but it only lasts half a second before I am convulsing with giggles and desperation.
“I seem to remember something,” he whispers heavily into my ear as he holds me against himself, showing no mercy. “You’re ticklish as fuck.”
“No,” I squeal, fighting him now. “I’m not.”
His laughter is deep and a little dirty as his hands move closer to my armpits. “Is that right?”
I make one last concentrated effort to move away from him and actually manage to put a little distance between us. However, he’s blocking the rest of the room, so the only place to go is the bed. I take the leap and land in the middle of it.
He growls and crawls onto it after me. I shriek and launch myself to the other side, but I get tangled up in the blankets. By the time I’ve freed myself, he’s caught up to me, and now we’re both stuck in the two feet of space beside the bed.
Rhett props his arm on the wall above our heads, but he doesn’t touch me. My mouth goes dry as he stares at me with his lids at half-mast, the desire in his eyes so blatant that my panties grow damp just looking at him.
He plucks the phone from my hand and tosses it behind him on the bed.
I make no effort to retrieve it, no longer giving two fucks if he deletes the picture or not.
He moves closer, but there’s still a sliver of space between our bodies, big enough that I have to fight to keep my hands from reaching out to pull him closer.
Our breathing is ragged, and I’d pay a million dollars to know what he’s thinking right now. His eyes travel every inch of my face, as though he’s memorizing it to savor later. I can’t do anything but lose myself in those dark eyes, which have the power to wreck me so thoroughly.
He touches my face with the back of his hand, and my eyes flutter shut at the butterfly softness of it. I feel his warm breath on my neck as he leans in. “Is this okay?” he asks.
I nod, eyes still closed, because what else is there to do when your first crush, your first kiss—your first love, probably—is touching you and asking if it’s okay?
Because how could it ever be okay for him to not be touching you, and how will you be okay when this is over, when he goes back to his life and forgets about you and you’re left with the memory of his skin against yours and the leathery scent of him and the taste of peppermint that prevents you from ever chewing gum again without thinking of him? How is that okay?
My body trembles as his fingers stroke my cheek with the utmost gentleness. I want to ask him to do something—anything—other than this slow, torturous dance around what we both want, but I’m terrified what it will all mean. And isn’t that the point anyway? For this whole thing not to mean anything?
“Relax,” he whispers. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
“I know,” I say. He’s been nothing but a gentleman so far, in spite of the fact that I’ve been sleeping only inches away from him for the past two weeks.
His hand grows heavier on my cheek. “Then what are you scared of?”
I swallow the thick lump in my throat. “I’m scared of what I want you to do.”
That’s all it takes. He pushes me up against the wall, hands firmly clamped around my face, and says, “Tell me when to stop, baby.”
My mouth opens with a gasp as his descends upon it. There’s something about Rhett’s lips. They’re pillowy and soft, but they have a strength behind them that you’d never know unless he kissed you. They pluck at my lips like a pick on guitar strings.