Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FREYA
Harvey and I are three episodes into some cooking competition show when the doorbell rings.
I don’t even have to check to see who it is. Something in me just knows. It’s exactly like when he was last at my door, except this time he’s not leaving town after ten minutes, not if I have anything to say about it.
I bundle Harvey into his hutch and practically sprint to the front door. I should probably look through the peephole, especially at this time of night, but there’s no point. It’s him.
As soon as I have the door open, he’s stepping across the threshold, smelling of smoke and sweat and wrapping his arms around me. I go where he wants me, my face finding a home in his neck as I breathe him in. Here. Safe.
Fuck, I’ve missed him so much. How is that even possible? I’ve been a complete wreck half the time he’s been away, terrified something had happened to him. All of that built-up adrenaline melts away as I let myself settle into his embrace. He’s back. Nothing else matters.
“Fuck,” he says into my hair.
“You smell like smoke,” I say without thinking. I can feel the vibrations of Oscar’s chuckle before he eases away. His hand brushes over my cheek once, twice, before he leaves the briefest kiss there, like the beat of a butterfly’s wing.
“Shit, I missed this face,” he growls.
“I missed you too. So, so much.”
I grip his wrist, keeping his hand in place against my face so that I can nuzzle into it. I would imprint the feeling onto my skin if I could, just so I could feel it forever. An unwelcome thought occurs to me and I snap my head up to meet his gaze. “Are you just picking up Harvey?”
He waits, considering his answer. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you ask me to stay.”
“Stay.” I nod, not wanting him out of my sight again.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I’m not going to let myself overthink this. I want him here. “But you need to shower first.”
Oscar comes out of the bathroom twenty minutes later in a cloud of steam, hair damp and tousled.
I’m on the bed, pretending to focus on the knitting project in my lap and not the gray sweatpants he pulled out of his duffel bag before heading for the shower.
From the smirk he shoots me, I haven’t managed to hide my interest, and I feel a blush rise across my cheeks.
He waggles his eyebrows as he sits beside me and I laugh, giving him a playful smack to the chest. He catches my head, dropping a kiss to my knuckles before releasing me so I can carry on with the project. I turn the show back on, enjoying the quiet domesticity as he settles beside me.
“Do you wanna watch something else?” I offer.
He shakes his head. “No, this looks good.”
I nod and start back on my knitting. I’m only half listening to whatever the host is saying. It’s a miracle I don’t fuck up my stitches with the way my focus is consumed by the man next to me.
I glance over and catch him watching my hands move.
A minute later, his eyes are on my face.
Then he’s watching my lips as I count stitches.
My breaths come faster. I’m aware of every tiny shift in his body, the way he settles in like he grew out of the mattress.
I giggle awkwardly, not used to being so closely observed.
“Just watch the show,” I tease.
“Honey, you turned it on halfway through the season. I have no fucking clue what’s going on.”
“Why didn’t you say? I could’ve explained!” I huff, exasperated.
“You seemed like you were enjoying it. I didn’t want to bother you with a bunch of questions.”
“So, what, you’re just gonna stare at me like a creep?”
“Something like that.” He shrugs. “You’re nice to look at.”
I scoff, my face getting even redder.
“You are!” he protests. “And it’s kinda crazy how you can do that without even looking.” He nods down at my knitting. I’d barely realized I was still doing it, it’s such second nature to me.
“Oh, it’s a pretty easy project.”
“It’s like your fingers are dancing.” He says it with a sort of wonder, like it’s nothing he’s ever seen before.
I smile, but I can’t find words to reply, not when my heart has lodged itself in my throat.
I look back at the TV, my hands picking up the yarn again.
It feels like there’s tension thrumming in the air between us, something I can’t see but that pulls at me any time either of us moves, like a tether close to snapping.
Halfway through the next episode I start to get a cramp in my hand. I flex my fingers, trying to stretch them out without being too obvious about it. Oscar catches me, because of course he does.
“You good?” he asks softly.
“Yeah, just a little stiff.”
He frowns down at the offending hand before plucking it off my thigh, holding it so delicately between his I could almost cry.
He starts to knead the joints, callused fingertips working into the fleshy part of my palm, running lines up my knuckles.
I have to fight not to moan at the sensation, but I can’t stop the soft sigh that escapes when he starts rubbing firm circles into the hollow of my palm.
He smirks at me, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
He continues working the joints, loosening each one up with deft movements. He pretends not to notice as my breathing grows heavier, but there’s no masking the tiny whimper that leaves me when he digs the tip of his finger into the base of my thumb.
“I-uh…” I stammer.
He just chuckles, drawing my hand up to his mouth where he kisses the center of my palm. I curl my fingers, scratching at the hairs on his jaw. Oscar takes this as an invitation to continue peppering soft pecks from my wrist up to my inner elbow.
Holy shit, I didn’t realize someone kissing my arm could feel like this.
His lips go up, up, up and I can’t do anything but give myself over to it, tipping my head to the side as he approaches the column of my throat, granting him better access.
I feel myself whine as he nips at my jaw.
My hands find their way to rest on his biceps, knitting forgotten.
Oscar matches my enthusiasm by banding an arm around my back, pulling our bodies flush together.
I gasp as the space between us vanishes.
He pulls back a little to take in my face, reaching up to push back a loose strand of hair.
It’s like he’s waiting for something, for me to make the first move, to show him that I want this. And I do. I want him so badly, I can hardly think.
I lean forward, tentative at first, and press my lips against his. The kiss starts slowly as he lets me find my way, mapping out the shape of his mouth. When my tongue presses against his lips he obliges, letting me in.
We kiss like that for long, languid minutes until my movements fumble and I lose my rhythm.
Oscar isn’t deterred, though, taking over and guiding me as our tongues intertwine.
It’s like music, the way we move together.
I never knew it could be like this with another person, and it was always too scary to try.
But nothing about Oscar makes me afraid in that way.
My fingers snake their way into his hair and he moans as I give the strands a soft tug. My belly flips at the sound and I do it again, eliciting another pained noise. He kisses me harder, like he’s trying to get back at me, and I’d giggle if I wasn’t otherwise occupied.
His touch roams, up and down my body, until he reaches my hips and pulls back.
“Is it okay, me touching you like this?” he asks, nudging his nose against mine.
I nod so fast I almost headbutt him and he lets out a loud laugh, but whatever he might’ve said gets lost to the hard kiss I press to his lips.
He strokes up and down my ribs once, twice, until his fingers make their make under my pajama shirt and against my skin, causing goosebumps to erupt.
“Is this okay?” he asks again as he shifts, taking hold of my hips and pulling me down the bed. At my nod, he follows, lowering himself over me. I look to the side and trace a finger across the strong forearm braced beside my head, caging me in.
He dips down, placing barely there kisses along my jaw, moving across as I turn my face until he takes my lips again.
It’s heady and deep, each pull stealing my breath.
I feel his palm creep under my shirt to rest on my abdomen and it feels like reassurance, like something to steady me, rather than a demand.
I slide my hands across his broad shoulders to tug at his hair again, the way he seems to like so much.
I get the growl I’m looking for and tug a little harder, giving the base of his skull a gentle scratch.
His mouth tears away from mine on a rough exhale and latches onto my throat, kissing and licking the sensitive skin there as his grip moves, one hand finding my waist as the other slides under my shoulders, surrounding me in a possessive hold.
Butterflies explode in my stomach as I take in this man, looking so determined to have his way with me.
I have to fist my hand in the back of his shirt, looking for something to anchor myself as my head spins from the sensation.
He continues his ministrations, murmuring praise into my shoulder, my neck, the hollow beneath my ear.
I can feel his words in the scratch of his beard as he tells me how beautiful I am, how much he wants this, how much he thought of me while he was away.
We break apart for a second and I try to gather my thoughts, anxiety starting to creep in at the edges of my awareness.
This is a lot.
Is it too much?
But it’s good.
I like it.
I think I like it.
I’m just a bit overwhelmed.
I gasp in a breath and Oscar growls in approval, not recognizing it for what it is. I work on grounding myself, staying here in this moment and not ending up somewhere I don’t want to be, but it’s hard when I feel like my consciousness is falling through the bed.
Do I want this? Am I just nervous? Everyone gets nervous, though, right? Especially with someone new?
I clutch at his shirt tighter, trying to gain some purchase in my muddled feelings. He must take this as a cue that I want it off, lifting for a second to tug it over his head and throwing it into the corner of the room in one swift motion before diving back down.
Is he holding me tighter than before? It kind of feels like it, but maybe I’m just imagining his arms become more constricting. I try to shift a little but it’s hard to move, and all I succeed in doing is bucking my hips against his, which he meets with an enthusiastic roll of his own.
Suddenly things feel sickeningly familiar. I’m barely here anymore. I’m somewhere else, with someone else.
My breathing becomes more labored.
I don’t like this.
This is scary.
I want it to stop.
I try to open my mouth to tell him but I can’t form the words, my mind spinning too fast, and it’s all I can do to bring my hands to his chest, ready to push him off.
I finally get out a noise, a desperate croak that has his head snapping up. His eyes are like saucers as he takes in my panicked expression. I don’t know what I look like, but if his face is anything to go by, it isn’t good.
“Freya?” he asks, pushing up onto his hands. I can breathe a little easier without his weight on me. I push him further and he goes, sitting back on his heels. As soon as he’s off me I take my chance and slide out from under him, scrambling up the bed.
I don’t know what he’s saying, I can hardly hear anything over the roaring in my ears as I huddle against the headboard.