Chapter 8 #2
“Control,” I say.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, counselor,” she murmurs, amused.
“Not analyzing,” I say. “Observing.”
She looks at me from under her lashes. “Observing what?”
“You,” I say. The word sits between us, heavy yet simple.
She swallows. The fan ticks. The panel light buzzes. The world shrinks to six feet and the way she’s breathing now. A little erratic again, but not the same way as before when she was panicking.
This is different. Awareness.
A beat passes. She watches my throat as I swallow.
“Tell me another thing,” she says, almost desperately.
“I don’t touch what isn’t offered,” I say.
Her lips part. “Good rule.” Her teeth catch her lower lip gently.
“It keeps people safe,” I say.
Her knee nudges mine. Not an accident. Barely there. Enough. Heat runs through me quickly, nearly stealing my breath. I don’t move.
Her knee stays against mine. A small press. A choice.
“Olivia,” I say, low.
She looks up through her lashes. “Yes?”
Her breath slips out, slow. Her fingers slide from her knee to the floor between us, close to my hand but not touching. Waiting.
I turn my palm up. I don’t take; I offer. She studies it like she’s weighing the different outcomes, then lays her hand in mine. Warm. Small. Stronger than it looks.
She leans another inch, the faintest of movements, and I can feel the warmth of her breath now.
“May I?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, almost a whisper.
I reach up with my free hand and touch the loose strand at her temple. I smooth it behind her ear. My knuckles skim her cheekbone. Her eyes go heavy-lidded, then open again, clear.
I pull my hand back slightly, giving her the out.
She leans forward, making contact again.
I skim my knuckles over her cheekbone again, slower.
Her breath hitches and evens out, the panic replaced by something thick and warm. My fingers pause just under her jaw; her skin is soft there. She leans into the touch.
Her hand leaves mine and finds my tie, not grabbing, not pulling—just resting at the knot. Her fingertips press lightly into the silk. I feel it everywhere.
“You’re very… put together,” she says.
“Occupational hazard.”
“I like it,” she says, and her voice drops.
She shifts that last inch, our knees lined up, her shoulder against my arm, her body telling mine exactly what it wants, even if we’re both pretending that’s not what’s happening.
“Say something boring,” she whispers, and it sounds like a dare.
“Your invite copy is perfect,” I say.
She snorts, breath against my jaw. “I draft a million times.”
“You nailed it,” I say
Her thumb drags once over the edge of my collar. “Roberto.”
My name in her mouth undoes me more than it should. I take her hand again, turn it, press my mouth to the inside of her wrist. Soft. Brief.
She inhales like she wasn’t expecting heat from so small a touch. Her head tips back against the wall, eyes closing for a second. When they open again, they are very blue and very clear.
“That helped,” she says, breathy but certain.
“Good.” I keep her hand, thumb warm over her pulse. “We can keep doing what helps.”
She nods, slowly. “Okay.”
Another small shudder moves through the car, a little reminder of where we are. Neither of us moves away.
“What else helps?” I ask.
“Talk,” she says, and then she adds, honest, “and that.”
“Noted.” I tuck another stray hair behind her ear. “Talk first.”
“Talk,” she repeats, smiling because we both hear the lie. “What do you want to know?”
“What would you do right now if the doors opened and you weren’t stuck with me anymore?”
She thinks a beat. “I’d go home. I’d take my makeup off. I’d stand in a hot shower until my brain stopped buzzing. Then I’d get into bed and wish—” She stops.
“Finish it,” I say.
“—wish I’d been braver,” she says, and it’s barely there.
“You’re brave now,” I say.
She holds my eyes. “I don’t feel brave.”
I angle closer, slow enough to be very obvious about my intentions, and give her every chance to choose a different ending. She lifts her chin the smallest amount. Her hand still rests on my tie.
“Rules,” I say, reminding myself more than her. “I have a lot of rules.”
“Break one,” she whispers.
I lean in. Not fast. Not hungry.
Her warm breath meets mine first. My mouth pauses a whisper from hers. I feel the yes coming off her without hearing it.
The fan hums. The light hums. The car is still. My heartbeat is not.
“Olivia,” I say.
“Roberto,” she answers, and that is the last permission I need.
The kiss is the barest touch. A testing. Her lips are soft, slightly parted. I press a little firmer, a slow close of mouths, no hurry at all. She makes a small, hungry sound that I feel everywhere. Her free hand comes to my shoulder, fingers tightening around the fabric, holding on.
I pull back just enough to breathe. Her eyes are still closed.
“Better?” I ask.
She opens them. They are wide and serious. “Don’t stop.”
I kiss her again, and this is not careful. I tilt my head, fit her mouth to mine, and slide my tongue against hers. She meets it, a slow, deliberate matching. Her hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, fingers pressing into my skin, and I move, shifting her closer.
A soft gasp against my lips, and I can feel the rapid beat of her heart through her dress. She smells like clean things and the faint trace of perfume that’s been driving me crazy since the elevator doors closed.
I break the kiss, drag my mouth along her jaw, pressing a kiss to the soft spot just below her ear. Her breath hitches. Her nails dig lightly into my neck.
“Roberto,” she says, a plea or a prayer.
"We have to stop," I say against her skin.
She kisses me this time. Harder. No pretense. This time, she’s the one who pushes her tongue into my mouth, and I meet it, tasting coffee and a faint sweetness.
I pull her closer, one hand firm at her waist, the other sliding into her hair, feeling the soft strands wrap around my fingers.
She makes a soft, frustrated noise, then her hands are moving, exploring my arms, my shoulders, sliding down my chest. One finds its way to my face, her thumb stroking my jawline. I turn my head and kiss her palm. Her breath catches.
I move back, just enough to see her face. The light washes over us both, and she looks wrecked and beautiful, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed. I want her in a way that’s inconvenient and immediate and a very, very bad idea.