Chapter 12 Sloane #2
I look down at my hands and send up a silent prayer that Julian missed the entire icing exchange.
He can’t go a day without gossiping with his mom on the phone, and the last thing I need is for Aunt Mary to be shouting to the high heavens that Dominic and I are having an affair when we absolutely are not.
I would never do something like that to Eric.
Not with his best friend, and especially not in his mom’s house.
Right, so what exactly does it mean when you let a man lick icing off of your face?
I blanch. That really happened. I sat here and let my husband’s best friend do that without so much as a protest. The same way I didn’t protest when he held my hand in the club, hugged me in my kitchen, or placed a light, but possessive, touch to the small of my back, which he’s prone to doing every time he happens to be walking beside me lately.
My stomach twists into guilty knots with the realization, and I’m overwhelmed with the need to get away from this man whose touch makes me forget things I should be holding on to with both hands.
Like where I am, who we are to each other, and the fact that just a few weeks ago we couldn’t stand the sight of one another.
“Yeah, man,” Dominic says to Julian. “Let me just grab my stuff out of the car.”
“Alright! I’ll go let everyone know we got a game.”
The screen door slams shut, and as soon as Julian’s head disappears, I jump out of my seat, sending the plate in my lap flying to the floor.
Dominic catches it with one hand and rises to his feet.
He’s still so close to me. Close enough that I can feel his abs flex when he sucks in a breath and looks down at me.
His lips part, and I know without a doubt that I don’t want to hear anything he’s about to say, so I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t.”
Surprisingly, he stops. He presses his lips into a hard line and watches me quietly as I take the plate and push past him, but I only make it a few steps before his hand flies out and grips my arm gently.
His heated gaze stays on my face, and for a moment we just stare at each other.
Then his grip is slipping down my arm. Down, down, down.
Slowly ghosting over my wrist, then my palm, and finally my fingertips.
Every inch of skin that’s been exposed to his touch is on fire, and the whisper of a smile playing on his lips as he leaves me standing in the living room with a half-eaten slice of red velvet cake tells me that was his intention.
I just have no idea why.
***
Rivulets of rain run down the window of my office, and I watch them fall, because pretending to be the lead in a late ’90s R&B video seems to be the only task my frazzled brain can complete.
I didn’t see Dominic at work at all, which is good, since I’m still reeling from yesterday.
Replaying the scene on Mama’s couch and the moments that followed over and over again.
No matter how many times I turn it over in my mind, I can’t figure it out.
I’ve never claimed to know Dominic all that well, but lately the things he does make no sense to me.
At first, I was glad for the changes the night in the club forced on us.
We were getting along, becoming something close to friends.
I was even getting some semblance of control over my body’s reaction to his touch.
Hours upon hours of thinking about it, and a hypothetical conversation with Dr. Williams after lunch with him last Tuesday, helped me pinpoint exactly what was to blame for my body’s reaction to Dominic.
Skin hunger.
That was the term she used, and apparently, it’s a normal reaction to not receiving the amount of loving human touch you desire for an extended amount of time.
In my case, going four years without letting any man who isn’t my dad so much as shake my hand has made me unfamiliar with being touched with intention and purpose.
It was a good explanation, and honestly who cared if it didn’t begin to cover why Dominic’s fingers trailing down my arm unlocked something in me I’d convinced myself I could live without when Eric died?
I was working through it.
I was well on my way to convincing myself that my inane sex dreams about him, and the hum of awareness that roared to life every time a part of his body brushed against mine, were a misguided by-product of my touch-starved skin.
Something I could work through on my own.
Something I needed to get a handle on immediately, since it was all in my head.
Then Icing-gate happened, and I was slapped in the face with the possibility that I’m not the only one who feels it.
The current of desire rippling between us, like an invisible string linked to the curve of Dominic’s lips and tied directly to the coil of desire that’s been lying dormant in the pit of my belly since the last time my husband touched me.
You’d expect these things to have some sense of loyalty to the man I promised my heart and life to, but no.
Here it is, unfurling like a lazy cat waking from a nap, purring for a man I’m still not sure I can call my friend.
Part of me wishes I could talk to Mal about it, but I can already see that conversation going left.
Her round, whiskey-colored eyes going wide with surprise and then darkening with accusation.
The same way Eric’s did the morning of his accident.
My heart lurches in my chest, and I force my brain to shift gears.
Tacking thoughts of Eric onto the tail end of my internal monologue about Dominic feels so wrong.
No. It doesn’t just feel wrong, it is wrong.
Dominic is Eric’s best friend, and I’m his wife.
Nothing, not even four years of life without him, will change those facts.
Who cares if I’m touch deprived and halfway attracted to the man?
Who cares if he seems to be attracted to me too?
None of it matters. None of it changes who we are and what we can never be.
But it can change how I’ve been operating for the past four years though.
Swearing off men and romance for the rest of my life sounded like such a smart idea when I was still drowning in grief and more than ready to accept a lonely life with nothing but hugs from family and friends and orgasms provided by my vibrator to get me through, but this thing with Dominic has me rattled.
It’s made me realize a grief-stricken twenty-six-year-old widow had no business making declarations for a healthy, vibrant thirty-year-old with a need for physical connection and a lot of life left to live.
Smiling, I lean back in my office chair and decide right then and there to be thankful for the whole situation with Dominic.
If it wasn’t for him, I would have never been brave enough to make this choice.
To step outside of my grief and finally focus on the part of myself I’ve been neglecting for years: the strong, sexy Sloane who wants orgasms and postcoital cuddles even if she doesn’t deserve the things that usually come along with them.
On a whim, I grab my phone and type out a text to Mal.
She left the office with the rest of our team at five sharp, leaving me to sit in my office for hours and pretend to work while my brain ran itself ragged trying to figure things out.
It’s almost nine now, and the relief I feel at finally thinking things through is quickly swiped away as uncertainty swirls in my gut.
I don’t know how Mal is going to react to the content of my message, but she’s the only person I can trust to walk me through this particular minefield.
Before I can chicken out, I squeeze my eyes shut and press send.
Sloane: I’ve decided to start dating again, and I want your help. Only if it’s not weird for you though…
A few seconds later, my phone vibrates in my hand. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding as I read her responses, which chime in one after another. The little drama queen can’t be bothered to put everything in one response.
Mallory: Babeeee!
Mallory: I’m so excited for you, and it’s not weird at all.
Mallory: You deserve to be happy, Sloane. Eric would have wanted that for you.
Mallory: When do we start? I know SO many sexy ass men who would die for a chance to get at you.
Mallory: Wait! What about James?! The man is in LOVE with you.
I scrunch my nose up at the mention of that name.
Mal still doesn’t know about the kiss, and I don’t want to tell her, since she might threaten to kick him in the balls the next time she sees him.
Shaking my head, I decide it’s best to keep it to myself until I’ve had a chance to let James know once and for all that I’m just not interested in something romantic with him.
Sloane: First off, I love your dramatic ass so much. Thank you for not freaking out about this. Second, please don’t try to give me any of your thirsty throwaways who can’t get over you. Third, James is a no. I’m not mixing personal and professional relationships.
Three dots pop up immediately, letting me know she’s working on her response.
While I wait, I clear my desk and lock up the office so I can finally head home.
For the first time in a while, I feel good, excited by the prospect of a future where I’m not in danger of ruining all of the important relationships in my life with inappropriate attraction, and the knot of guilt and self-loathing that’s been lodged in my gut is starting to dissolve.
I smile as I crank my car, confident that Mission: Defeat Sloane’s Skin Hunger is exactly what I need to make that knot, and the feelings that created it, disappear completely.