Chapter 13 #2
‘Are you afraid?’ His hand, the one with the fractured finger, is palm up.
‘I’ve taken your hand before.’ I know how dangerous it can be.
‘The reason you don’t want to touch me is the same reason I couldn’t sleep with you last night.’
‘You wouldn’t have tried anything.’ When I reach through the shadows and grasp his hand, our palms press together. I’m suddenly warm. Much too warm.
He lifts our hands higher, holds them between us. ‘You were offended because I wouldn’t sleep with you.’ His thumb slides over the base of my thumb.
‘It wasn’t that.’
‘What was it?’
I didn’t want to be alone. How do I explain that?
I can’t, so I’ll use his words.
‘I don’t want to answer that.’
‘You asked if I was angry.’ His scent is fresh and clean. ‘Part of me is.’
‘If I thought I couldn’t do the work, that I wouldn’t be useful to your project or would let people down, I wouldn’t have agreed to come.’
He strokes again. ‘It wasn’t your call.’
Could anything ever be my call with a man like him? Is his heart rate skyrocketing like mine?
When I tug at my hand, he lets go but doesn’t step back. He’s not unsettled or afraid or confused or …
Moving as deliberately as he did when he took my hand, I put my hand against the side of his face. He freezes. Our eyes lock.
‘Felicity.’ His voice is rough. Eyes bright. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Demonstrating I can touch you.’
His lashes and brows are inky black. When his hand skims my arm to my shoulder, his touch burns through my coat and my shirt and my skin and sends a warm stream of need through my veins to my heart.
His fingers clench and unclench. He turns his head, presses his mouth against my wrist and talks against my skin.
‘I want this.’
Within a heartbeat, his hand slides from my shoulder to my waist to my hip and then I’m on my toes and our bodies are lined up, his chest against my breasts, our stomachs, our thighs.
He kisses my wrist, then, face so serious, he touches my hair near my neck.
He bunches it up and smoothes it down, threads his fingers through the strands then combs through to the ends.
‘Fuck.’ When he lowers his head, the warmth of his breath on the side of my face quadruples my pulse. ‘Fuck.’
‘Sebastien …’ His name is a whisper. A plea? Because I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me? He’s close enough to kiss. His mouth is nicely shaped and—
‘Fuck.’
I can’t tear my eyes away from his mouth and maybe he knows that because, even though I didn’t think our bodies could get any closer, they suddenly are and we’re sharing breaths.
Short, shaky breaths. Long, shuddery breaths.
I hardly know which belong to me and which to him as his hands slide down my back and clench on my hips.
My hands are flat against his chest and his heart thumps hard against my palms. He lifts me higher and I lean in.
Warm achy need seeps from my breasts to my thighs.
‘It was wrong to deceive you.’
He’s earnest and solemn. ‘Yes.’
I want to ask him about his truths. The air force. Why he’s unhappy. But I also want to kiss him. His hair is on his forehead again. I push it back, then comb it forward.
‘I like it like this.’
His mouth skims my neck. ‘It needs to be cut.’
‘I disagree.’
A fleeting lift of his lip. Then, focus intent, he runs his fingers through my hair again, pushing it back over my shoulders.
‘This is beautiful.’
A couple, hand in hand, walk along the waterfront. They’re young. Teenagers. My teenage years were nothing too bad then nothing too good. But today, right now …
‘This timing …’ His words are whispers on my mouth. ‘It’s fucked.’
‘You’re swearing a lot.’
He kisses a corner of my mouth. ‘I want you.’
A truck rumbles along the road. When the long, deep bellow of a ferry horn sounds, Sebastien lifts his head a fraction.
Footsteps. Someone on the path. Our eyes meet again.
And as if we realise at exactly the same time that if we don’t kiss now—right now, this very minute—we might never do it, our mouths touch.
Warmth floods my body and liquefies my limbs.
His lips move over mine like he has to commit them to memory.
His kiss is light then hard then light again.
As he mutters words I don’t understand, I wind my arms around his neck.
His hair is thick and soft. He lifts his head, searches my face, kisses down my neck until I tug at his hair, and he lifts his head and kisses my mouth again.
A long, slow, intricate exploration. A gentle conversation.
Then a rougher one. When I find his tongue, he groans deep in his throat, loops his tongue around mine and takes over.
A kiss, a discovery, a journey. Every little touch sets off a zillion nerve endings—my breasts and thighs and everywhere in between.
More footsteps. Sebastien backs me further into the shadows.
His hair is glossy even in the darkness.
His jaw has bristles and that excites me too.
Finally, when we’re both breathing hard, he cups my face, rests his forehead on mine.
‘Will you go to the pool tonight?’
‘It’ll be closing soon.’
His hand slides up my side from my hip to my waist and higher. His thumb skims over my nipple and my legs weaken. He dips his head, rubs his cheek against mine.
‘Sebastien?’
With a shudder, he lifts his head, kisses my mouth briefly but possessively. ‘You like warm water.’
‘I feel the cold.’
When he smiles, my heart flips. He runs his thumb across my mouth. ‘Yes,’ he whispers.
He’s not cold, he’s warm. And his erection is long and hard against my thigh.
This time when we kiss, he lets me lead.
I take my time, exploring his mouth like he explored mine.
His hands are firm on my body, his tension palpable.
Because he wants more? When I slip my tongue between his lips, he moans deep in his throat.
He shifts a leg and puts it between mine.
I squeeze my thighs together, release and squeeze again.
We’re in the open and this is crazy yet—
My body is soft and heated. His is hard, the movements of his hands firm and deliberate. My hips, waist, my hair. I want him to touch other places too.
‘Sebastien?’ My hands flutter between us then brush his lapels.
He anchors my hands, safe and sound against his chest, then wraps an arm around my waist. The park lights cast uneven shadows.
His clean, soapy, pine smell gives me butterflies.
His lips are slightly open. My breaths are light and airy.
He mumbles against my mouth: ‘Lisse.’
Quiet steps as an elderly couple walk past. ‘Wasn’t Captain Thorsen marvellous?’ the woman says. ‘I was enthralled.’
‘Impressive,’ the man says.
I ease back a little. ‘People wanted to meet you. You have to go back.’
He lifts my hand and kisses the knuckle at the base of my thumb. ‘Come with me.’
He’s clever and handsome and he gave an excellent speech. He knows what he wants, what is right and what is wrong and what should happen next. I shake my head, but no words come.
‘Thirty minutes.’ He finds my other hand. ‘Then we leave.’
Where would we go? Would he kiss me again? Have sex with me? ‘No.’
He must see something on my face because he frowns. Then, ‘We’ll walk to the hotel. Talk. I’ll take you to your room.’
‘It’s your room.’
‘I’ll sleep in the other room.’
Thoughts tumble through my mind. Safe and sensible thoughts. Tomorrow, we leave for Antarctica. And when we get there, I won’t see much of him because he’ll be looking into planes and ships while I’ll be poring over data and doing field work.
I shake my head.
‘What?’
When I pull my hands free, I miss his touch. When I take a step back, I miss his warmth.
‘I didn’t expect …’ That the kiss would be perfect. That it would make me want more. That it would confuse me. ‘You said you shouldn’t. You were right. I’m sorry.’
His mouth is tight. ‘I’m not sorry.’
‘This …’ I wave a hand between us. ‘It can’t happen again.’
He opens his mouth before shutting it. ‘Why not?’
‘I was attracted to you. I was curious.’
‘There was more.’
‘Do you mean sex?’
‘No.’ He speaks through his teeth.
‘What, then?’
‘When was your last relationship?’
‘I used to hook up. Now I don’t.’
‘I said relationship.’
‘What’s the difference?’
He rakes a hand through his hair. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘You said the timing was …’ A jerky nod. ‘You said it was wrong. It’s more than that.’
His gaze is on my mouth. ‘You can’t pretend this didn’t happen.’
My heart hurts. My thoughts are a jumble. ‘You don’t know me, not really.’
He thinks about that. ‘I’m learning.’
‘If you’d known I had panic attacks, you wouldn’t have let me come.’
‘No.’
‘You’ve seen me at my worst, when I’m vulnerable and—’
‘I wouldn’t take advantage of you.’
‘I don’t want a relationship.’
Just like he’s learning about me, I’m learning about him, and the more I learn, the more I know how easy it would be to care and rely on him. And what would be the point of that when I’d inevitably lose him? This shouldn’t be difficult. It shouldn’t hurt.
‘We’re different. Strangers.’
Expression grim, he takes my hand and draws a line across my palm. But he doesn’t use his index finger, he uses his little finger, the finger he fractured. He draws another line to cross the first. And then he lets me go.