Chapter Twenty-Five #2
I shift in my seat, but that only makes things worse. My skin feels too aware of itself, every inch of it tuned to him, to the way his thumb is still absentmindedly brushing over my knuckles like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to me.
“That’s a long time to be thinking about something,” I say, trying for lightness, but my voice comes out lower than I intend. Much more throaty. “We’ve been dating . . . what? All of two weeks?”
“An agonising amount of time. Good thing I’m a patient man,” he replies, but the way his eyes flicker over me betrays an impatience instead.
I let out a small breath. “I don’t know if I believe that.”
“No?” His grip on my hand tightens just slightly, holding me there, subconsciously keeping me from retreating into something safer. “I suppose I could be less patient.”
The words land low, somewhere beneath thought, beneath reason.
I swallow, my pulse quickening in a way that feels almost embarrassingly obvious.
There’s an ache building in my lower belly, while my nipples are now pointed buds beneath the dress Theo’s so desperate to remove.
I take another deep, steadying breath, while his thumb continues to rub circles.
“You’re so . . .” I’m lost for words. Because I don’t actually know what he is and I’ve never felt this way before, not with anyone.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “I’m what?”
“You’re so good at this,” I finish, shaking my head, a faint smile tugging at my mouth despite everything. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”
There’s a pause. Then, quieter, almost deliberately, Theo leans forward. “Do you want me to stop?”
I could lie. I should lie, probably. But that idea barely forms before it dissolves under the weight of everything else . . . his touch, his voice, the way my body has already decided something my brain is still trying to negotiate.
So, I lean in just enough to close the space he’s been watching all night, my voice barely above a whisper. “No,” I admit. “I really don’t.”
His expression shifts, not triumphant, not smug, just certain.
As if something has clicked into place exactly where it was always meant to go.
Maybe that should bother me, I think. The ease of all this.
The fact that he’s read me so quickly and so completely.
That whatever this is between us has accelerated past the point of plausible deniability and into something much harder to deny.
There’s a part of me, a very rational, well-socialized part, that is suddenly whispering again: third date. This is the third date. As if that means something. As if there’s a rulebook I’m meant to be following, a timeline I’m supposed to respect. The patriarchy, and all that, I remind myself.
Fuck the patriarchy, though, because I know the truth. I’d already made up my mind long before our date tonight even started. Somewhere between choosing this dress and reapplying my lipstick for no real reason, I’d decided: I was going to sleep with him.
Still, sitting here now, with his absent-minded circles against my skin, I realize I’m not shocked by my own decision.
But I am shocked by how quickly he’s made it feel inevitable.
I take another deep breath. “You did say our third date would be better.”
“I did, and it has been.” He’s still gazing at me with hot eyes. “It could end right here, right now, and it would still be better.”
“I don’t want it to end here,” I admit. “I don’t want it to end now.”
He smiles at that, slow, pleased, and maybe even a little dangerous. It plays havoc with my body, that smile.
“So, you’d like us to be statistically consistent, then?”
“Mm. I really would.”
We leave the restaurant, and outside, the air is cooler, the city quieter in that mid-November way that makes everything feel slightly more intimate.
We start walking, and I know where I’m taking him. My place.
Our hands brush once and then twice. The third time it happens, he doesn’t let mine go, and something deep within me begins to tingle.
It’s not nerves, not exactly. It’s better than that, but also, more weighted.
Like this moment matters more than it should.
We stop eventually, outside my flat, and Theo turns to me.
There’s that look again. That knowing, far-too-clever-for-his-own-good look.
“That sixty-four per cent,” he says softly, stepping towards me, “might need revising.”
“Oh?” I tilt my head. “Up or down?”
“Up,” he says.
He kisses me, and it’s not like the long, lingering kisses of our second date.
No, this is better. He’s slow at first, almost tentative, like he’s giving me time to adjust to this, to adjust to him.
Then, his hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and I go easily, pressing myself to him closely, winding my hands around his neck.
Suddenly, his kiss deepens, and it’s torrid now, as well as completely uninhibited.
Time does that thing again, slips, stretches, and then disappears entirely, and I realize this is exactly where I want to be. In Theo’s arms, with Theo’s lips on mine and his hands on my body.
Patriarchy be damned.
I only break away to find my key, and pull Theo towards the door.
He looks at the door to my flat and blinks. “What is this place?” he asks, his gaze sweeping over the building with interest.
“My place.”
“It’s a shop.”
“Yeah. I told you I own one.”
Theo looks flustered. “Look, I can be kinky at times . . . but at your shop?”
I laugh, actually laugh, bright and a little breathless, the sound spilling out of me before I can stop it. It cuts through the haze he’s wrapped me in, just enough to bring everything back into focus.
“No. I have a flat above the shop,” I smile as I push the key into the lock. “That’s where I live.”