Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
I can’t get a word out before he disappears, but even if I’d had time, my throat is completely dry, my voice barely more than a rasp.
My head swims with a vision of us together in the shower, the water running in rivulets off his perfect cheekbones and full lips, as he presses me hard against the cold tile, his fingers trailing slick lines down my body before slipping between my legs.
I’m pulsing with desire, flat on my back on the mat.
Dazed and confused and unbelievably, impossibly turned on.
Somehow I manage to get myself off the floor and into a shower of my own.
But for the rest of the night, it’s like I’m trapped in one of those dreams where I’m trying to run but can’t, pumping my fists uselessly as my legs refuse to be dragged along.
The World Cup match is dreary, a nil-nil draw between two defense-minded countries.
Bashie won’t stop talking for a single second, which I normally find endearing but tonight find unconscionable.
I want to be alone with Lachlan—I want more than anything to be alone with Lachlan, to clarify if what happened in the gym was an isolated incident, a mistake, a figment of my imagination…
or not. But even though I’m running as hard as I can toward that moment, that crucial alone time, I can’t get there.
Bash is pouring another whisky, Lachlan is watching the postgame analysis and barely looking at me.
At some point I slip away and get ready for bed.
Whatever I thought might happen clearly won’t tonight, as Bashie rambles on and on, out-yammering even the professional commentators.
And despite my frustration, I know this is a good thing.
Now that I’ve calmed down, I can admit I got carried away earlier.
I would hate to cross a line, no matter how much my body is craving the transgression.
I know the line is arbitrary, but it’s clear in my mind: I refuse to be the other woman.
I can’t, not until Lachlan and Claire have resolved their issues.
The problem is that any time I’m near him, this conviction is nowhere to be found.
I pick up the book on my nightstand, which is about climate change—nothing better to take the edge off. The door to my bedroom is ajar and it draws my attention as a shadow moves in the hallway.
“Knock knock.” Lachlan pushes the door open and leans against the frame. He’s momentarily lit from behind, the contours of his body silhouetted by the hall light. He walks to the side of the bed and knees me. “Budge up and let me in.”
“No way, this is my side.”
“Fair enough.” He puts a hand on my knee and basically pole-vaults over my legs, landing with a dull thud on the other side of the bed.
“Are you drunk?” I ask through my laughter—laughter that is some mixture of amusement and nerves and relief that things are still normal between us.
“No, I’ve been sipping the tiniest glass of whisky for two hours while Bash finished half my Glenmorangie.
I love him like a brother, but sometimes I want to throttle the wee man.
” Lachlan flops onto his stomach, props his head on his hands, and kicks his legs up in the air, looking every inch like a teen girl at a slumber party.
“You’ll never guess where he went, though. ”
“Hmm…Sexy Sadie’s?”
His jaw drops. “What? How’d you know?”
“She told me ages ago.”
“And you didn’t share that delicious piece of gossip with your bezzie mate?”
“Sure, I told Josh, but he didn’t seem to care.” I flash him a wicked smile, earning a pillow blow to the knees.
When he’s finished attacking me, Lachlan rolls onto his back and hugs the pillow to his chest, his gaze resolutely fixated on the ceiling.
“You know, I think there was a part of Bashie that wanted me to clear out so the two of you could be alone. He kept making weird comments about taking you to Sadie’s. ”
“Yeah, he does that sometimes, bless him. And I love the guy, but like a brother. Or a fun uncle. Or a friend that gets way too drunk and you have to frog-march them home and physically put them into bed because you’re worried about what they’ll get up to in the absence of adult supervision.”
Lachlan laughs and rolls his head backward to look up at me upside-down. Beneath his sparkling eyes and cut-glass jawline, his long neck stretches down, his collarbone just peeking out of the neck of his soft cotton shirt. He’s perfect. “What about anyone else at the club?”
“Don’t start with the Kieran nonsense again.”
He rolls over and inches closer to me, nearly at my feet now, nearly where he started our stretch earlier tonight. “I’m just trying to be your wingman.”
“And yet we haven’t talked about a single diseased rabbit all night.”
His eyes glow in the soft warm light of my lamp, and his smile is wide. “You know, in the gym today…”
My body trembles, a nervous, terrified thrill that we’re finally getting onto the subject. “Yeah?”
“There are a few other stretches we can try for that tightness in your hips.”
Maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but there’s an edge to his look.
He’s sitting up now, his knees touching mine, and both of us are perfectly still.
It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room and we’re balancing precariously on the edge of a knife.
One move from either of us, in either direction, and everything will come tumbling down—I just don’t know which way. “Oh yeah?”
He leans toward me, a move that’s nearly imperceptible, but I’m hanging on every signal that could help me understand. “I’d be happy to show you sometime.”
I’m drawn to him, mirroring his move, inching my body a millimeter closer to his.
Close enough to see my beloved gingery stubble.
Close enough to get a hint of the whisky on his lips.
Close enough that I’m sure he can see how erratically my heart is thumping under the thin cotton of my pajamas.
“What will it cost to retain your services as a personal trainer?”
His grin spreads slowly across his face, like it’s luxuriating in the moment, savoring the divine thickness of the tension between us, the searing heat. “I’m sure I can think up an appropriate payment.”
A pleasant heaviness settles in me as I take him in, splicing the very real Lachlan Ramsay on my bed with fresh memories of him crouching between my open legs, his hand splayed on my hips, his fingers caressing my ankle.
It would be easy, so easy to pick up where we left off.
One slight move of my knees, one little glance letting him know it’s okay, one touch so he can start to unravel the tightness building in me, working at it with his deft fingers, mouth, tongue.
He must have the same thought because his hand has found its way to my knee, resting there in a way that’s somehow both confident and tentative, like he’s sure he wants to do this, as long as it’s all right with me.
He swallows thickly and I watch it slide down his neck.
My fingers trace the motion before I can stop them, landing lightly just under his jaw.
My sharp breath is drowned out by his own, which I feel under the pads of my fingers.
We lock eyes and in that moment, we teeter on the knife edge.
I’m searching for any clue in his eyes—have I gone too far, is this the Rubicon, does he regret it—but all I see is inky blackness.
“Abby—” he starts, but I’m louder.
I won’t cross the line.
“You nicked yourself shaving right here.” I brush my fingers over an imaginary cut, partly to show my nonchalance, partly to hide how much I’m shaking. “You should probably stop shaving altogether, if you’re going to be so clumsy. I’d actually like to see you with a proper beard.”
“Good to know.” He brings his hand up to his neck, interlacing his fingers with mine, guiding them to the cut we both know isn’t there.
His pulse hums beneath my touch, quick and powerful.
I curl one finger down, lightly caressing his throat.
He gathers my hand in his, brings my palm to his mouth, presses his lips against it. “Good night, Stripes.”
As he walks to his bedroom, I feel it. I’m released from my dream sluggishness, my pointless attempts at running held back by invisible forces.
I can go full-pelt, thrashing headfirst toward whatever I’m running at.
Because now I know two things for sure: One, what I felt in the gym was real, and two?
I don’t know how much longer I’ll have the strength to resist it.