8. CHAPTER EIGHT
“Are you afraid to get your hands dirty?” I ask, eyeing Curren’s gloves.
The look he gives me in response is flat—an attempt at being emotionless. But I can see a fire in his eyes that tells me he’s just as confused about how he’s feeling as I am. At least that’s what I think they are saying. The more I think about it, the less sure I am.
I tear off another piece of sponge. “You used to copy everything I did. If I jumped, you were right there behind me, ready to break something.”
“Hardly… You needed me as much as I needed you.” Holding my gaze, Curren reaches for the cake without removing his glove. Curiosity gets the better of me and I glance down in time to see him scoop at it; his leather-covered fingers dark against the cream.
“You sure you’re not worried about getting your hands dirty?”
“Does this bother you?” he asks, taking a bite.
A vein in his neck pulses when he opens his mouth.
His sharp jaw rolls as he chews.
And, goddamn, he takes his sweet time swallowing.
“I think it bothers you that I keep asking.”
Curren puts the small remaining piece of cake he’s holding into his mouth, and lets his lips close around the tips of his fingers to gently remove the crumbs. “You can ask me a question as many times as you like. But I still get to decide whether to answer.”
I know that for a person who chooses their words carefully, Curren will always have something to shoot back at me, because this kind of banter is a well-rehearsed dance for us.
One we’ve slipped straight back into like we’ve never spent a day apart.
Then, as if to spite me, he drags his middle and index finger across the cake, deliberately smearing them with cream.
I roll my eyes. “Way to ruin the rest of it.” Though, I can’t really gather enough fake indignation to make it sound genuine.
After placing the box beside him on the bench, he raises his cream-covered fingers between us; swapping his gaze between them and me.
It takes every bit of my self-control not to grab his wrist and lick them clean.
Luckily I don’t have to suffer this limbo for long, because he languidly draws his hand to his mouth. Then he's cleaning the leather. Slow and deliberate. His eyes never leave mine as his tongue dips between his fingers, sucking off every trace of white, sticky cream. Like he’s taunting me.
Like he knows he has me exactly where he wants me.
Like he’s saying, “ I played your game; now accept your defeat.”
Swallowing hard, my entire world tilts on its axis as realization strikes me like a bolt of lightning.
I wasn’t hurt when I lost him all those years ago. I was heartbroken.
I didn’t just seek out this career as a ‘fuck you’ to my father. It was because, deep down, I knew that if I couldn’t have him, I didn’t want anyone else either.
He was a broken child.
Then a spiteful teen.
Now he's the man unapologetically fucking his mouth with his fingers in the middle of Hyde Park at one pm in the afternoon.
“I think you’ve proved your point."
Curren's tongue makes one last swipe across his thumb before he lowers his hand. His expression is unchanged, those dark eyes still hypnotizing me from behind chestnut waves. “Do you think so?” he asks, swallowing, and I can taste the bitterness of my jealousy at the cream inside his mouth.
I leave his question unanswered. What does he want me to say, anyway? Yes, you’ve proved that you can render me speechless. You still control my life.
But I can’t say those things. Not when I don’t know how he’ll receive them. Not when his intentions could be nothing more than to see how far he can push me before I snap. I mean, what am I even thinking? Curren’s not gay. Hell, I’m not even gay.
He’s still staring at me, and I shift on the bench in a pathetic attempt to conceal what's going on in my pants.
“Is there a problem, Jude?”
“Um—no. I just get uncomfortable when I sit for too long.”
“I don’t think it’s your ass that’s uncomfortable.”
“Maybe you're not as good at reading me as you think you are.”
“And maybe you're just as bad at hiding things as you always were.”
“What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you always got when you were trying to lie to me.” His eyes drop to my lips, then circle my face. “You’re blushing.”
“Am not.”
“You’re trying to hide something.”
“You might not like what I have to say.”
“Or it might be exactly what I want to hear.”
“Are you asking me to—”
“Just fucking do it.”
And so I do.
I grip the side of his neck and instantly feel his erratic pulse against my palm. His leather gloves scrape against the rough wool of my jacket, and my heart pounds like a war drum in my chest.
There’s no hesitation in our collision. My lips crash into his and our teeth click together, because there’s nothing polite about it. It’s hard, frenzied, and masculine.
His hands slip beneath my coat and dig at my waist.
I drive my fingers into his hair so I can grab it tight and pull him closer.
I’ve never felt this before; this instinct to consume and be consumed.
A tremor runs through him, and I moan into his mouth as the world falls away, leaving nothing behind but me and Curren, and the taste of jam and cream.
“Jesus, Jude,” he mutters, almost incoherent.
“I want you to—” I begin. But before I can continue, he abruptly pulls away.
“Fuck!” He snatches up his bag, and with long, fast strides, he leaves me alone on the bench with my hands clenched into fists, as I try to catch my breath.
Not another word spoken. Not even a glance back in my direction.
And like a coward, I just watch him walk away.
Because deep down, it's what I expected him to do.