Pointe of Pride

Chapter 13

Carly couldn’t sleep. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to sleep again. How could she, when every time she closed her eyes she was back on Heather’s front porch, pressed against the wall with Nick Jacobs’s hand in her hair? His hand gripping her hip, need pulsing in his fingertips. She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, her body buzzing even though she knew she was tired.

There was no refuge here, either. Even with her eyes open, she could still smell him on her skin, could still hear the way he’d hissed with desire when she’d bitten his bottom lip. She arched her back under the sheet, remembering how badly she’d wanted to press her entire being against his tall, lean body.

But she knew where that led. It led to more kissing, and then to the kind of sex he’d want and she couldn’t give him. She gripped the sheet hard in one hand, feeling almost as frustrated now as she had in the moment. He’d want to put his fingers inside her, and his cock, and she would be left with two choices: stop him just like she had last night or pretend that she wasn’t in pain. A few months ago, she would have chosen the second option. She would have kept kissing him—because God, that kiss—and she would have gritted her teeth through whatever came next. But she knew better now. Which was why a kiss like that could not happen again. Why she’d pushed him away and watched him walk back down the hallway, pretending nothing remarkable had happened.

Here in the dawn light, though, alone with the ache between her legs, she couldn’t pretend. She wanted Nick Jacobs, and he wanted her. She didn’t understand it, but she couldn’t deny it, either. But what would be the point of giving in to it? She had a broken vagina, and they had work to do. The wedding was two weeks away, and then she’d go back to New York and he’d go back to Paris. Get it together, Montgomery. You came here for Heather. To spend time with her best friend and help her pull off the perfect wedding she deserved. Not to fuck around with the best man, and certainly not to screw up her best chance of getting promoted.

She groaned at the ceiling and rolled toward the bedside table, reaching for her phone. Desperate for a distraction.

When she’d come home from Heather’s last night, she’d had just over a thousand followers. She pulled up her account and saw that now, she was closing in on three thousand. Still a far cry from viral fame and guaranteed promotion, but clearly she and Nick were doing something right.

She scrolled through the comments on the latest photo she’d posted, another one from yesterday’s session at the pool. She’d turned toward the railing and closed her eyes to let the morning sun warm her cheeks and her eyelids, then come up onto relevé and lifted one leg into a high arabesque, leaning her torso ever-so-slightly forward to get her working leg as high as she could. It had come out beautifully; Nick had captured the movement of the water below her and the breeze that had caught a few strands of her hair as she held the position perfectly still. The jagged, surf-swept rocks were a perfect contrast to the smooth, geometric lines of her legs. Her skin looked like it was glowing, and her body looked strong and in control. It might have been the best photo yet, and she’d posted it without hesitation this time, complimenting Nick’s talent and making a point of tagging the official accounts of the tourism boards for Sydney, New South Wales, and Australia. And clearly, she wasn’t the only one who’d appreciated it.

@PlieForPasta: Wow, i’d literally kill for extension like this

@shaydoesballet: feeeeeeeeet!

@VisitSydney: Looking good @CarlyMontgomery, and Freshwater Beach looks pretty nice too!

She clicked on the profile picture for Sydney Tourism, and her heart leapt: the account had reposted the photo, and it had thousands of likes on it. That explained the sudden increase in followers. It also explained the tone of some of the comments on her own post.

@jjmiller965: Sydney’s always been on my bucket list, and now I think this chick has to go on my fuck-it list lol

@GainsInMaine: I wanna found out just how flexible this bitch is

Carly made a face and deleted the comments as quickly as she could. Ugh, men were garbage. And men on the internet were garbage monsters. The internet was where the fuckboys of the world really let their fuck flags fly and said things to and about women they’d never dare to say in real life. Even though the internet was actually real life, and it wouldn’t take a forensic genius to track these guys down. She deleted a few other gross comments and then pulled up some of the other photos Nick had sent over.

She swiped through them, then stopped on one of the black-and-white shots he’d taken yesterday morning, when he’d told her to go down to the water without him. She’d dug one knee into the sand and extended the other leg behind her, then arched backward until her chest was parallel with the sand. She could still feel that pose in her lower back, but it had been worth it; this shot was art. She smiled down at the screen, zooming in and noticing how Nick had captured the moment the wind had grabbed her hair and made it stream behind her just like the lifesavers’ flags above her. He really was good at this.

And really good at kissing. Like, annoyingly, unfairly good. Confident and commanding, like he knew exactly what his body was capable of. She wondered if he danced like that, when he was still performing. He’d been attentive and careful, too, like he was studiously collecting information about her body. Listening to it. She wondered if he’d partnered like that.

She had to stop thinking about kissing Nick Jacobs. Needed to stop wondering about him.

Maybe she could get out of seeing him today. Maybe she could conjure up some excuse, some wedding errand that only she could do, and then she wouldn’t have to spend all day with him.

As if in answer to her prayers, a clap of thunder sounded overhead, followed by the ticking of rain against her window. She rolled over and looked out; the early morning sky was a swirl of full gray clouds, and the rain was falling steadily. Halle-freakin-lujah. No chance of photography today. She smiled grimly to herself, then hastily tapped out a caption and posted the photo. There. That was done. She’d have a whole day to herself, and by the time she saw Nick again tomorrow, she’d have stopped thinking about kissing him.

Nick spent the night refusing to think about Carly. Refusing to think about the idiotic decision he’d made to kiss her. Refusing to think about the inexplicable disappointment he’d felt swell in his gut when she’d pulled away from him and declared that kiss a mistake. Kisses, plural, really. Lots of them. Lots of hot, needy kisses that made absolutely no sense to him. They’d been glued to each other like horny teenagers, and if he hadn’t been on the front veranda of his best friend’s childhood home, he knew he would have been grinding his hard-on against her, desperate as he was to feel as much of her body against his as was humanly possible. He hadn’t kissed anyone that way in years, perhaps since he’d actually been a teenager. Maybe not ever. He hadn’t ever felt desire like that, desire that blacked out all the sensible parts of his brain, the parts that knew that Carly Montgomery was a walking hand grenade.

And then, of course, the grenade had gone off. She’d pushed him away and told him that the entire thing had been a bad idea, and even though he agreed, because again, hand grenade, he’d been confused and disappointed when she’d said it. And he didn’t want to think about why.

It was for the best, he told himself, as he stared at the ceiling. Yes, that kiss had crackled with heat and desire, promising that anything more would be truly explosive. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Carly was explosive. Predictably unpredictable. He needed to stay far enough away from her that he didn’t get grazed by any more shrapnel.

But they had work to do. Kissing or no kissing—and she’d made it clear, there would be no more kissing—he still needed photos for his portfolio, and he wouldn’t mind a little viral popularity, either. And there were still plenty of items left on Heather’s spreadsheet.

Which was why, after a night of restless sleep, Nick climbed out of bed, got dressed, and made a stop at the hotel café before heading out into the splattering rain. He had just raised his hand to knock on Carly’s when it was flung open, and there stood Carly in jean shorts and a tank top, looking slightly disheveled from sleep and very surprised to see him.

“It’s raining,” she blurted, by way of greeting. “I figured we couldn’t shoot in the rain.” She met his eyes, and he thought he saw a flicker of panic before her gaze darted away and landed on the takeaway coffee cup in his hand.

“It’s supposed to ease up in a few hours. I thought we could cross a wedding task off our list then head out once the rain stops.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sounded almost disappointed, as though she’d been counting on a day without him. Which shouldn’t bruise his pride, obviously. It didn’t. What had happened on the front porch at Marcus and Heather’s last night … it was irrelevant. He certainly hadn’t tossed and turned all night thinking about what could have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted.

“Come in, then,” Carly conceded, yawning and not meeting his eyes. “I’ll be back in a minute. I was just about to run downstairs and get myself a coffee.”

“This, euh, this is for you,” he held out the cup. “I already had one.”

She glanced up at him in surprise, her brown eyes wide and still puffy from sleep. “Thanks?” she said, like she wasn’t sure if she could trust him. “Is that another milkshake?”

“No, it’s a simple iced coffee. Just coffee with ice. I asked for nuclear-strength, and the barista had a tattoo on his forearm that said DEATH BEFORE DECAF, so I suspect he delivered.”

She laughed softly, and the sound shouldn’t have been sexy. “Thanks,” she repeated, and this time he heard the full stop at the end of it. It was grudging, but it was there. She took the coffee from him and turned back into the apartment, waving him inside.

He followed and was met by an explosion of beach decor that made his eyes water. “Really laying it on thick, aren’t they?”

“It’s growing on me,” Carly said, flopping onto the couch. She closed her eyes and took a long sip of the coffee. He tried not to look at her lips pursed around the straw, and failed. “Oh, God, caffeine,” she groaned, and again, it shouldn’t have been sexy.

Casting around for a distraction, Nick sat at the small round dining table and pulled out his phone, which had the list he’d assembled. Googling “best wedding dance floor songs” had helped him settle down last night when all he could think about was the moment Carly had grasped his shirt and closed that last, desperate inch of space between his mouth and hers. About the rough, hungry moans that had drifted out of her when he touched her and—no, not thinking about that right now, he reminded himself. Or, ideally, ever.

He cleared his throat. “I thought we could take care of the playlist this morning. I already started building it, but I thought you might have some opinions to share.”

Carly opened her eyes and threw him a skeptical look. “You thought I might have some opinions?”

“Yeah, I had an inkling,” he said, allowing himself a smile.

“Hmmph.” Carly took another long pull of coffee, then pushed herself off the couch and crossed the room, holding out her hand. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”

For a moment, he considered refusing, but he knew her well enough by now to know that she’d get her way eventually, so he handed the phone over. He watched as she scrolled through the list, her forehead wrinkling deeper with each swipe of her thumb.

“No, no, no. Absolutely not. We are not putting “Uptown Funk” on this playlist. If people want to dance to that song they can go to every other wedding on the planet. And have you actually listened to the lyrics of “Hey Ya”? That is not a happy song. And while we’re at it, you can take “Happy” off here. What is this, 2014?”

Yeah, he had an inkling she might have some opinions. “What do you suggest, then?”

“We need some classics on here, stuff the older guests will recognize. Earth, Wind Fire, Lionel Richie, Wham!”

“Wham.”

“Wham!” She said it with so much enthusiasm he could hear the exclamation mark at the end of it.

“I don’t like Wham.”

“Everybody likes Wham!, Nick,” she rolled her eyes.

“Not everybody.” This was fine. This was good. They were back to bickering, and no one was thinking about kissing anyone.

“Everybody with an ounce of good taste, then.” Her thumbs flew across the screen, and a second later “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” was blaring out of his phone.

Nick gave her his coldest, stoniest stare, and she grinned back, putting one foot in a bevel and bouncing her hip, phone in one hand and coffee in the other. When he didn’t respond, she got her shoulders involved, shimmying until her ponytail shook. Nick watched her, realizing with horrified interest that if she was wearing a bra under that shirt, it wasn’t a terribly supportive one. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and when she didn’t stop dancing, he reached out and snatched the phone back, fumbling slightly as he hit pause.

“Fine, you win, you win. I’ll put this on the list.” Carly gave him a smug smile, and he looked back down at his phone. Looked anywhere but at her. “What else do we need, then?

Carly pulled out the other chair and sat down across from him. “Some newer stuff for the young people. Beyoncé, Lizzo, Taylor Swift. Obviously some songs about dancing. ABBA, Whitney Houston, Robyn, the Bee Gees. Half the guests are ballet people, which means they’re going to want music from the dance movies they love, which means that Jamiroquai song from Center Stage and ‘I’ve Had the Time of My Life.’ Oh, and ‘Yeah!’ by Usher.”

“What dance movie’s that one from?”

“It’s not from a movie, it’s just Heather’s favourite song.”

He looked up at her, eyebrows raised in skepticism. For a second, Carly’s smile looked vaguely evil, but then she widened her eyes innocently and took another sip of her coffee. This felt like a trap.

“Heather’s favourite song includes the lyrics ‘bend over to the front and touch your toes’?”

“Hamstring flexibility is very important, Nicholas,” she said, her innocent act so unconvincing that he couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Just trust me, she’ll love it. What about Marcus? What songs will he want to dance to?”

“Euh, it’s been a while, let me think.” When they’d been teenagers, Marcus had been into Australian rock. Powderfinger, Cold Chisel, INXS. He didn’t think those were particularly good to dance to, but—“Oh, Kylie Minogue. ‘Spinning Around.’”

Now it was Carly’s turn to look skeptical. “Really?”

“Pirouette technique is very important, Carly,” he said, imitating her wide eyes.

Impossibly, her brows rose even higher.

“Fine, maybe not the song, but definitely those gold hot pants. He had a poster of her in them stuck up in his locker at the ANB school for years.” Marcus hadn’t been the only one. Those hot pants had had the entire country in a collective wet dream for most of the year 2000. “If you want Usher on this playlist, then I get to put Kylie on it.”

“All right, fine,” Carly said. “What else?”

Nick thought about the weddings he’d attended in the last few years, a few of them in Germany but most in France. Delphine’s friends from high school or from the Paris Opera Ballet school. A few of their colleagues from POB, almost all of whom had grown up in France, since the company rarely hired people who hadn’t come up through its school.

“‘Les Sunlights des tropiques,’” he said. It played at basically every French wedding, and it always got people on the dance floor.

“Never heard of it.”

“Trust me, if you like Wham, you’ll like this song.”

“Once again, everyone likes Wham!”

Nick didn’t bother with a comeback, he just pulled up the song and hit play. It had a rapid, tropical beat and lyrics about feeling the sun on your skin on a beach at the edge of the ocean. He watched as Carly listened, lips pursed again, like she was reserving judgment.

“I don’t like it.”

Not reserving judgment for long.

“Give it a chance; listen to it for more than ten seconds.”

“I am listening! He just said he has a bongo in his heart and a bird in his head!”

“‘Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo’ isn’t exactly poetry.” He stood and struck the same pose she had, with one foot propped onto demi pointe and his knee crossed coquettishly over his standing leg, and popped his hip to the beat. “Viens danser,” he sang along.

“Non,” she replied, staring up at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Viens danserrrrr,” he sang louder, and maybe he had lost his mind a little. He was being ridiculous, he knew, but maybe the only way to best Carly Montgomery was to beat her at her own game. He grabbed her hand and tugged it, and she stood reluctantly, letting him hold on to her fingers and swing her arm back and forth to the beat. She rolled her eyes, but a few seconds later, her feet started moving, and she was stepping side to side as Gilbert Montagné sang about the magic of the Pacific Ocean, the waves and the sky. Then her hips and shoulders joined in, and Nick dropped his showgirl posture and started moving like Carly was, like they were on a dance floor with a foot or so between them, enjoying the silly ’80s beat of this silly ’80s song the French loved so much. Y a rien à faire qu’à rêver. Prends-moi la main viens danser, Montagné crooned. There’s nothing to do but dream. Take my hand and come dance.

The last time he’d danced to this song, he’d pulled Delphine into his arms, him in a sharp linen suit and her in a chic backless dress. They’d swayed under the night sky at a vineyard in Provence. About as far from Freshwater Beach as you could get, he thought, as he and Carly bopped together, her in her cut-offs and him in a pair of board shorts he’d never have worn in Paris.

“All right, fine!” Carly sighed loudly after a moment. “It’s a good song.”

Nick chuckled and kept dancing. “So I was right?”

Carly rolled her eyes, somehow managing to roll them in time with the beat. Well, New York Ballet School was known for prioritizing musicality.

“Sorry, Carly, didn’t quite hear that,” he teased.

“You were right,” she grumbled, though there was no real resentment in it.

“A little louder, please? So I can hear you over the good song?” She shot him a lethal look, but he just laughed and held out his hand, only half expecting her to take it. But she did, and in his surprise, he spun her around a little harder than he’d meant to. She gasped and toppled a little, falling towards him, but he put his other hand on her waist and steadied her. Once she’d regained her footing, they kept dancing, a few inches closer than they had been, and he could feel the muscles in her waist shifting under his hand as she swayed. Smell her shampoo clinging to the curls that had slid out of her ponytail as she danced. He swallowed, thinking that he should step back and restore the space between them. He should.

He was about to do it—really, he was—when the song ended and the next one began, a slower beat. On va s’aimer, Montagné sang. We’re going to love each other.

He knew better than to pull Carly even closer, but that was what you did when a slow song came on, wasn’t it? You pulled your partner closer, so that her hips touched yours, and you could run your hand from her waist to the small of her back. You watched her press her lips together, probably unconsciously, as the movements became less like dancing and more like breathing together. You let her slip her hand out of yours so she could twine her arms around your neck and bring your faces even closer together, until your pulse was pounding hard enough for her to feel it through your ribcage.

Human hand grenade, he thought. Back away slowly. No sudden movements.

She was so near now, just like she’d been last night. And just like it had last night, his body screamed for him to close the gap. Cover her mouth with his and taste her. She’d taste like the coffee he’d brought her, he thought, and suddenly he’d never craved coffee more than he did at this moment.

Let’s not make that mistake again, she’d said. But the way she was looking up at him through her lashes now, shy and nervous, made him hope she hadn’t meant it. Or that she’d meant it and was having trouble sticking to it. He sure as hell was.

“Carly?” he asked quietly, as their swaying slowed to almost nothing.

“What?”

“Last night …”

She swallowed, and he watched her throat work, watched the muscles shift under the smooth skin. His mouth watered.

“… was a mistake,” she finished his sentence. She lifted her chin and met his eyes, her face a picture of determination. But she didn’t remove her arms from around his neck, and he didn’t miss the way her gaze slid over his mouth on the way up.

“That’s right. Shouldn’t happen again.”

“Right,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

“Right,” he echoed, but she didn’t move away.

“Because you’re an asshole,” she breathed, and it almost sounded like she was saying it to herself. Reminding herself.

“And you’re a big-time ballet brat,” he said, just as quietly, letting the words flutter over the top of her ear. She shivered and bit her lip, and that was when he knew he wasn’t alone in this insanity.

“Swear to God, if you call me that one more time, I’m going to—”

“What? What are you going to do, kiss me again?”

For a moment Carly said nothing. She looked up at him, eyes glittering with defiance and unmasked desire. When she finally spoke, her words sent a thrill of triumph and anticipation racing up Nick’s spine.

“Try me.”

Nick looked down into her face, at her full lips and flushed, freckled cheeks, and those wide golden-brown eyes. Carly Montgomery had no poker face whatsoever. And she wanted him to call that bluff. He lowered his head until his mouth was barely an inch from hers, hovering there and testing his own resolve. For a moment neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. And then he spoke, just like they’d both known he would.

“Brat.”

This time, when she kissed him, he thought he was ready for it. But no one could ever be ready for the human hurricane that was Carly Montgomery. She claimed his mouth, her tongue darting in with swift determination, and heat swept through him, desire making his skin pulse and buzz with every stroke of her tongue. He couldn’t keep himself from groaning as her fingers tightened in his hair and she pulled him harder against her body, kissing him furiously. She tasted like coffee and sugar, and he lapped at her mouth like it was the first shot of caffeine he’d had in weeks.

Desperate for more, he grabbed her waist and spun her, walking her backward until her legs hit the back of the sofa, swallowing her gasp as he pressed himself against her and she tightened her grip on his hair. It stung deliciously at the roots, and he pinned her to the sofa with his hips, reveling in the breathy mewling sound she made when she felt his hardness through her shorts. It took all his self control not to sweep his other hand up her leg and run his fingertips over the smooth, hidden skin of her inner thigh, over those silvery pink stripes he’d seen during those hours of torturous editing. Instead, he gripped her waist, feeling her muscles shift beneath the fabric as she arched into him, tilting her head to gain better access to his mouth.

Nick completely lost track of time. He forgot about the spreadsheet and the playlist, and about all the very good reasons this was a bad idea. He didn’t hear the rain hitting the windows or the cawing of birds outside. He heard nothing but Carly—Carly’s sighs, Carly’s gasps, Carly’s whimper as his lips left hers and traveled down her neck to her sharp collarbone. In this ridiculous seashell-orgy of an apartment, they were their own tiny world, pressed against the couch and each other for what could have been hours or mere minutes. Her smooth, freckled skin tasted faintly of sunscreen and rose petals, and he wanted nothing more than to peel those denim shorts down her spectacular legs and find out what the rest of her tasted like. His cock was painfully hard, pressing against his shorts and demanding release, desperate for more of her.

He ran his hands down the sides of her body, tracing the curves of her small breasts before skimming his fingers over the taut skin between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her jeans. She gasped and broke the kiss.

“I can’t have sex with you,” she blurted.

Nick froze and pulled his hands from her hips, taking a step back for good measure.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face screwed up. “We have to stop. And we can’t do this again. I can’t have sex with you.”

Nick took another step back, and Carly’s stomach dropped. He was already walking away from her.

Good. Fine. She’d known he would. God, men were so fucking predictable it was almost funny.

“No one said anything about sex,” Nick said, sounding a little out of breath.

Carly crossed her arms, then looked him up and down pointedly, raising her eyebrows at the very obvious bulge at the front of his shorts.

“Fine, I was thinking about it,” he conceded. “But can you blame me? That was …”

Incendiary. Atomic. And obviously leading to sex. “I know. But I can’t. I mean, I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Promised who?” he said, cocking his head. “Shit, are you … do you have a—”

“No, I’m single,” she said hastily. “Very single. Extremely single.”

“Okay, so, who did you promise?”

“Me. I promised me.”

He nodded slowly, as though he understood. But then he spoke. “So are you, uh, waiting for marriage?”

Carly snorted. “Absolutely not. That ship sailed a long time ago. And it sailed many times. A whole fleet. An armada, even.”

Nick frowned, either at the image or out of incomprehension, she couldn’t tell. “I’m not following. What promise are you talking about?”

Jesus, he was really going to make her say it, wasn’t he? It was bad enough that she’d lost her cool and blurted it out at him, but now she had to explain it to him? Here, in this increasingly small living room?

“I have a health condition that makes sex impossible.”

Nick nodded in comprehension. “The broken vagina.”

Carly felt her cheeks heat. It was one thing to throw around those words jokingly, like a kind of armor over her hurt, but it was another to hear Nick say them. He sounded so serious, as if they were talking about a natural disaster or the national debt.

“That’s not the technical term for it, but yes,” she said, shifting against the couch. “And it doesn’t really make sex impossible, it just makes it … unbearable.” Even though she’d borne it. Made herself do it even when it hurt. Consented to the pain.

“Is it vulvodynia? Vaginismus? Dyspar—I don’t know how to pronounce that one, but I’ve read about it.”

“Dyspareunia,” she whispered, staring at him. Her heart was suddenly racing. “How do you know about that?”

He leaned against the edge of the table and gave a tiny, elegant shrug. “Google exists. I Googled it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You … Googled it?”

“I searched for ‘broken vagina’ and ‘dilator,’ and a bunch of stuff came up, and I read it.”

Carly burst out laughing. She couldn’t control it. It was half amusement, half discomfort. He Googled it. It was the kind of thing Heather would do, she thought, and then she pictured it, and only laughed harder. The idea of Nick Jacobs sitting down at his computer and typing in the words she’d yelled at him, tapping in “broken vagina” and letting Google take him down the pelvic floor rabbit hole—it was too much for her at this hour. But then she thought about the last time she’d had this conversation with a man, and what a disappointment that had turned out to be, and a laugh died in her mouth.

“Well, I’m glad you finally learned that Google is your friend,” she said, once she’d collected herself. When she’d first tried to find information about painful sex online, when she was still a teenager desperate for answers, there’d been almost nothing out there. What a difference a decade made.

“I learned a lot, though I think my algorithm is a bit messed up now,” he said, smiling. His biceps flexed and relaxed as he crossed his arms over his chest, and she had to will herself to look somewhere else.

“And now you know why this can’t happen again. I can’t have sex with you.” Even though I really, really want to.

He didn’t say anything in response. He just watched her, and she kept talking to fill the silence. Just to put off the moment when he’d do what she needed him to do, which was to concede that she was right. That there was nothing here and couldn’t ever be.

“I made myself a promise that I wouldn’t have sex with anyone until I’m better, and there’s so much other stuff I need to focus on right now, with the wedding and the promotions schedule, and I don’t break my promises,” she went on, reciting the words she’d repeated to herself all night. Hearing the words come out of her mouth without really feeling them on her tongue. “So, yeah. That’s why it can’t happen again.”

He leaned back and nodded slowly, like he understood. His eyes looked a little puffy, she noticed, and she could have sworn he was still wearing the same shirt he’d worn last night. She had a feeling she wasn’t the only one who’d slept poorly.

“Can I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” she said warily.

“According to Google, there are different kinds of, uh, broken vaginas,” he said, and she couldn’t help but smile faintly at the words. “Some people can’t handle being touched at all, some can’t even wear tight clothes. Some can do those things but can’t handle penetration.” He paused and swallowed, and she watched him gather the courage to ask. “Which are you?”

“The third one,” she said. “I wear tight clothes for a living, with no problem, thank God. I can be touched. And it’s not like I can’t handle penetration,” she said.

“The armada.”

“Right,” she said, with a grim smile. “I can handle it. It just hurts like hell when I do it. But I can do it.”

“Spoken like a true dancer.”

She nodded. Angela had said something similar during their first appointment. In a gentle voice, a voice that seemed calculated to probe but not to blame, she’d asked why Carly hadn’t stopped sooner. Hadn’t listened to her pain sooner. Angela knew the answer, of course, but she’d wanted Carly to know it, too: she’d spent her whole life pushing through pain, ignoring discomfort, dancing even when her body begged for rest. Ballet had taught her to keep going even when she knew something wasn’t right.

“And I don’t want to hurt like hell anymore. Every time I do it, it only makes things worse, and I’m working really hard to make things better.” No one could ever accuse her of not trying. She might be a mess and a menace and occasionally a brat, but no one could say Carly Montgomery didn’t try. Just like no one could say she didn’t keep her promises.

“That’s why you have the dilators,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” she sighed, looking over her shoulder at the door to the bedroom, where the white plastic columns were stashed in their ziploc bag in her nightstand. “I guess you read about that, too.”

He made a noise of assent. “How’s it going?”

She looked back at him sharply, remembering the pointed questions that had lain just under Carter’s words when he’d asked something similar. How long are you going to make me wait? How long am I going to have to settle? How long will I have to put up with this? Her answer then hadn’t satisfied Carter, but it was the only answer she had to give Nick now, so she gave it.

“Slowly. I think it’ll be a while before I can have sex again, if … if it ever happens.” It struck her as extremely strange that she was having this conversation with Nick Jacobs, someone she’d known for less than a week, and liked for even less than that.

He was watching her again, his face impassive. Except for his eyes, which were the color of the waves at dawn, and were fixed intensely on her face. She wanted to look away, wanted the conversation to be over, but she made herself hold his gaze.

“So, anyway, that’s that. We have more important things to do, and there’s only two weeks until the wedding, and I have a broken vagina. Plus, I’m a menace and tu veux me tuer.” She said all of this as briskly as she could, squeezing the back of the couch and feeling the stuffing contract beneath her fingers.

“That’s not true,” he said quietly.

“Yes, it is,” she replied firmly, almost relieved that they were back to bickering. “We absolutely have more important things to do, and the wed—”

“The last part’s not true,” he interrupted.

She felt her eyebrows jerk up, and for a moment she couldn’t think of what to say.

“Nick,” she started, but he interrupted her.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he went on, leaning cockily back against the table and lifting one side of his mouth ruefully, “I absolutely think you’re a menace, and I fear for my safety every time you walk in the room. But it’s not true that I can’t stand you. Actually, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“About how much you want to throttle me? Or push me off the Spit Bridge?” she tried to joke.

He raised his head and met her eyes with a hot, hungry look. He swept his gaze down her body so slowly and so deliberately that she almost felt it like a physical touch. Her mouth went dry as his eyes returned to her face.

“No,” he said firmly, his meaning unmistakeable, and the word reverberated in her bones.

She scoffed. “That’s not liking me. That’s wanting to fuck me. And as I’ve already told you, I can’t do that. I can’t give you what you want.” Please don’t ask me to. Why was he making this so difficult?

Carly stood up from the back of the couch and walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, sucking down gulps of her ice coffee, then tossed the empty cup in the trash. She leaned against the cool granite counter and took a few breaths, knowing that she’d have to go back into the living room and face Nick again.

But before she could turn around, he came into the kitchen and approached her cautiously, like he thought she might bolt if he moved too quickly. He stepped toward her until the tips of his shoes met the front of her flip flops, and looked down into her face.

“I know we’ve both acted badly, what with the trolley ramming and the public dressing downs,” he said, and she stared down at their shoes as he spoke. “I’m sorry for my part in it. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Carly swallowed hard and looked up at him, feeling heat radiating from his chest. She wanted more than anything to pull him against her, bring that heat closer and let it mingle with her own, but she willed herself to stand straight. Still, she couldn’t stop the truth from tumbling out of her mouth.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, either. It’s very irritating, isn’t it?”

He chuckled, and she felt the low rumble in her toes and in every nerve ending.

“I wouldn’t say irritating, per se, but it’s very distracting.”

“Nick Jacobs, you’re a pedant,” she said with a smile.

“I’m not a pedant,” he said, not taking his eyes from her mouth. “I am precise.”

She rolled her eyes, and he responded by leaning forward slowly, so slowly, and putting one of his hands on the counter next to hers. A tiny movement, but one that took all the remaining air from her already breathless lungs. She turned away, giving him her back and regretting the decision immediately. There was no escape here, either. His body bracketed hers, and even though only their hands and feet were touching, she swore she could feel his pulse hammering along her spine. His long, graceful fingers were loose on hers, but she could feel the tension that pulsed in his arms and imagined it wrapping around her shoulders.

“Nick,” she said as firmly as she could manage, clinging desperately to the purpose of this conversation. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“I want whatever you have. Whatever you can give me,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. His breath flickered against her ear as he spoke. “Whatever we can do together. I want that. I want all of that.”

He lifted a hand and swept his fingertips across the nape of her neck, pulling her hair away and exposing the skin to the cool morning air. Then he repeated the motion with his lips, sending hot sparks racing under her skin. She shuddered and arched her back, not wanting him to break contact, and he didn’t. He took a step closer and kept his mouth on her neck, hot and ravenous and raising goosebumps with every sweep of his tongue, and trailed his fingers lightly up her body from her hip to her waist and up the side of her breast. Desire gathered between her thighs, and she arched her back again, wanting as much of him pressed against her as possible. He obliged, and she felt the hard length of him against the base of her spine.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and she felt him smile against her skin.

“We don’t have to. I don’t want to if you don’t want to. So the question is, what do you want?”

She didn’t know how to answer, so she tipped her head back and tried to kiss him, but he stopped her. He put his hands on her waist and gently turned her around. Now the counter was the only thing hard against her back, but she looked into his appallingly handsome face and saw him gazing down at her with dilated eyes. She was breathing rapidly, but he seemed to be holding his breath.

“What do you want?”

She nodded, then grabbed a handful of his shirt and tried to pull him toward her, but he resisted, standing firm and letting her tug fruitlessly on the fabric.

“You’re going to have to say it,” he said, looking into her face and raising his eyebrows, challenging her. “With words.”

She glared up at him and pulled his shirt again. “Nick,” she pleaded, and she was annoyed, but not surprised, to hear the whining note in her own voice. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, and the want between her thighs had become an insistent, throbbing demand.

“I said words, plural. That was one word.”

“Pedant,” she growled, and he chuckled, low and throaty. A real laugh, not something sharp and grim, but loose and warm and just for her. The sound made her breath catch in her chest, and when he lowered his head and ran his hand up the side of her body again, she had to remind herself to exhale, then inhale.

“I’m not a pedant, I’m precise,” he said, his mouth half an inch from her ear. “And I want you to tell me precisely what you want from me.”

“No,” she said stubbornly, releasing his shirt. For a moment he froze, taken aback, but then she grinned wickedly up at him and stepped sideways and away from the counter. He wanted her to be in charge here? Fine then, I’ll be in charge, she thought, and she sauntered as casually as she could out of the living room and into the bedroom. You think I’m a brat? Fine then, I’ll be a brat.

She heard his footsteps follow her, and then stop. When she reached her bed, the sheets pushed down and the throw blanket tossed in a heap at the foot, she turned around to see him standing in the doorway, his hands pressed flat against the door frame. He seemed to be holding himself there, unwilling to enter the room. Fine, she thought again, meeting his gaze and refusing to break it. We’ll see how long that lasts.

She sat down and settled herself back on the pillows. He didn’t speak, and didn’t move, so she slipped her thumbs under the waistband of her shorts and slid them slowly off her hips. When she lifted herself off the bed slightly to get them over her ass, she saw his sharp intake of breath and felt triumph flicker beneath her sternum.

“Carly …” he started, but she shook her head.

“I don’t want to tell you,” she said, sliding the shorts down her thighs, then over her calves, and kicking them off. “I want to show you.”