Chapter Twenty-Two
Slowly, Ravi pushes himself upright. Yael doesn’t stir at the loss of contact, or at him climbing out of bed, or even when he stumbles over one of her house slippers and swears under his breath.
It’s sort of a wonder that she can sleep so easily through it, but he supposes he knows she’s a heavy sleeper already.
Ravi looks around for a pen and paper, finding both on the windowsill.
He brings them to her nightstand to scrawl out a quick supply run, back by noon—R on the top sheet and tears it off.
When he returns the pen and pad to their perch by the armchair, he notices that there’s a book there, peeking out from a woven blanket.
He pulls the blanket aside—it’s The Catcher in the Rye, and there are at least a hundred tiny colorful tabs poking out from its edges.
He freezes, the blanket still between his fingers. Elle is supposed to send him her Catcher rough cut next week.
Ravi shakes his head, drops the blanket, and heads for the living room. Yael is a school librarian; it’s not weird for her to be reading a book from a school reading list. It’s just a coincidence.
He needs to stop looking for Elle in her. Last night, when she’d said she was Jewish, his first thought had been Elle is Black and Jewish. And his heart had raced, like somehow it meant something, even though he knows that Elle lives on the East Coast.
Why does he still want to know her so badly? They haven’t talked about anything but work in weeks. They ended whatever they were doing for good reasons. He genuinely likes Yael—more than he probably should. He’s torturing himself, and this isn’t fair to her.
He gathers his things, zips his rain jacket, and pushes his thoughts of Elle aside.
AS MUCH AS it felt like an utter tragedy last night, in the broad light of day, Yael is glad for her lack of preparation. And she’s grateful that Ravi left a note instead of waking her. It gives her some time alone to think and saves her the unsavory déjà vu.
In the shower, she stares at the faux tile while she finger-combs conditioner through her hair, trying to decide whether sleeping with Ravi is a sign of emotional instability.
She made that initial choice quickly and in frustration.
But after that first time, they’d slowed down, and her desire hadn’t dissipated.
It was impulsive, sure. But here she is today, still wanting him.
Yael pulls on lacy underwear and her favorite soft cotton jersey dress, not bothering with a bra, grabs her copy of Catcher, and heads out to the kitchen for coffee and food.
She only has a chapter and a half left, so she’s finished and loading her mug and bowl into the dishwasher when Ravi knocks.
“Come in!” she calls, looking up as he does.
There’s a certain ease in his shoulders and a smile that’s a little disarming, even after yesterday.
He seems so completely comfortable with her, in a way that makes very little sense in their circumstance.
Even less so that she feels the same every time she looks at or touches him.
“I’m back,” he says, turning to hang up his jacket and place his shoes on the rack.
“I can see that,” she replies. She sees the grocery bag dangling from his hand, and her toes curl in her slippers.
“Yael,” he says, his eyes raking over her for the first time since he opened the door. “You did this on purpose.”
“I did what on purpose?”
He looks at her incredulously for a moment. “You are wearing the exact same thing you were that night.”
Yael doesn’t have to ask which night he means, not with the emphasis he puts on the word. She looks down and, yeah, she is. It hadn’t even crossed her mind—it’s her go-to lazy weekend dress. “I got my slippers clean,” she says.
He laughs, crossing the room toward her, that grocery bag still in his hand. “Ah,” he says, “that’s good to hear. The slippers are definitely what I’ve spent the last few weeks thinking about.”
She’s thought about that night, too. She could probably recite everything they said to one another from memory. Could paint the way he looked at her on his doorstep. “I’m not wearing exactly the same thing,” she says, stepping closer to him.
His free hand finds her hip, heat blooming through her from his touch. “Oh?”
Yael grins. “My underwear is a lot nicer.”
His grip tightens. She could paint this look.
It would be part of a series: in front of his house, in the library office, in her kitchen.
The balance of emotions shifting across each panel.
So hungry now that she might have missed the pain if she hadn’t already memorized what those emotions looked like tangled together on his face.
It’s a perverse thrill, to be wanted to the point of hurt.
And comforting, perhaps, because she so often feels the same.
“There were things I was planning to say to you,” Ravi says.
The space between them constricts. He smells clean, fresh, bright, and still so much like him.
“What were they?” Yael asks. She sounds breathy and hoarse.
It’s honestly ridiculous. She’s had his mouth almost everywhere on her, his fingers inside her, and yet just the heat of him this close is enough to weaken her knees.
“I honestly don’t remember.”
“Must not have been very important,” she says.
“Must not,” Ravi agrees, looking at her lips.
“Maybe,” Yael says, “you’ll remember what you wanted to say in a few hours.”
She steps back, peeling his hand off her hip and tugging him toward the bedroom.
He adjusts his grip as he follows her, and then somehow …
they’re holding hands. Her heart beats in double time.
They fit so well together like this. They fit so well together in every way they’ve tried, and maybe it’s too good to be true.
Maybe this will finally be the way they won’t fit.
Or worse, maybe they will fit, and she’ll be devastated by Ravi in an entirely new way.
Her body, which has been steadily thrumming with arousal for the last eighteen-odd hours, is suddenly awash with nerves.
In her room, Ravi gives her hand a squeeze before releasing it and setting the box of condoms on her bedside table.
He turns to face her, reaching over his shoulder to pull his sweatshirt off in one smooth motion.
Underneath, he’s wearing a fitted white T-shirt.
It strains at his biceps, and the right side of the bottom hem is rolled up enough for Yael to catch a glimpse of skin over the band of his boxer briefs.
Yael exhales slowly, heat already gathering between her legs. Ravi smiles at her as he undoes his belt buckle, sliding it out from the loops and dropping it on top of his discarded sweatshirt.
His eyes drag over her, and she glows under his gaze. “The way you’re looking at me makes me feel like you can see through my dress,” she says.
Ravi’s smile widens. “I’m trying my best,” he says, stepping out of his jeans next.
Yael carefully reaches for the hem of her dress and removes it, only breaking eye contact for the brief moment when the fabric clouds her vision.
“Christ,” Ravi says.
Yael wants to joke to diffuse the tension coiled tightly within her.
It’s the slippers, isn’t it? she could say.
But Ravi takes off his shirt, too, and Yael’s throat feels too thick with need to speak.
She loves the dark hair that grows along the contours of his torso, how it starts to thicken before it disappears beneath the band of his underwear.
The bulge there makes her feel less silly about how hard her nipples are already, the pulse between her thighs. She clears her throat quietly.
“You are…” Ravi trails off.
“Nervous,” Yael supplies.
Ravi nods, swallowing. He sits down on the edge of the bed and offers her his hand.
She takes it, stepping between his knees.
It’s better, looking down at him like this, and the fact that he knew it would be makes her heart feel too big for her chest. “What can I do to make this good for you? I’m highly trainable. ” He presses a kiss to her belly.
She shakes her head and shrugs all at once. Ravi loosens his grip on her hand, letting his fingertips lightly trace the lines of her palm instead. “I want to make this good for you,” she says.
“It will be.”
“It’s been a really long time since I’ve had penetrative sex,” Yael admits. “I mean, like … actual years. I know we already had sex several times yesterday, so I’m not sure why I’m even feeling—”
“It will be good,” Ravi interrupts before she can apologize further, “because you’ll use your words”—he kisses the valley between her breasts—“and I’ll use mine.”
Yael’s jaw loosens. Slowly, she nods. “I want you to kiss me,” she says.
Ravi drags her down flush against him, hands on her ass.
The kiss is deep and so, so slow. He licks into her mouth like, I’m listening, letting her guide the pressure and tempo.
The hard length of him against her makes her even more desperate for him than it did yesterday, the anticipation mixing with actual knowledge of just how good he can make her feel.
They kiss and kiss until Yael is gasping for air.
Her hands are on his shoulders, his nape, his hair, his back.
But his hands stay firmly in place, aiding the grind of her hips.
He sucks at a spot on her neck that makes her arch into him, moaning, and he answers by taking one of her nipples between his lips.
Then, gently, blessedly, his teeth. His tongue to soothe.
He kisses his way across her chest before doing the same to her other one. And then again. Lips, teeth, tongue. Over and over, as she continues to rock against his erection. She’s aching for him, inside and out, every nerve ending screaming for release.
“I could come like this,” she says, her voice rasping.
“Do you want to?” Ravi says into her skin.
“No,” Yael says, still rocking. “No, I want you inside me.”