Chapter Sixteen #2
“What do you think? Are we done for the night?” He was already reaching for the remote.
I could’ve stayed up with him longer, but that might have led to waking up tangled on the couch and the resulting complications, so I forced myself to nod even as I plopped down in my spot.
He shut off the television, snapping us into silence.
“I hate that show,” he mumbled, folding his arms over his chest.
I gasped. “What?”
“The most overrated series of all time.”
“You’re the most overrated of all time!” I cried. “The Office is classic. Steve Carell deserved an Emmy. I’ll die on that hill.”
“Have fun with that,” he said, his eyes slipping shut. I leaned my head against the couch, admiring the slope of his nose, the sharp jut of his jaw, his dark hair curling over the top of his ear, his eyelashes long enough to fan across his cheeks.
“Okay,” I said. “What would you watch, then?”
He hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not a big TV guy. I’d rather watch a movie.”
Another tidbit unlocked. I wanted to unravel everything about him, right here on this couch. “What’s your favorite movie?”
“Magnolia,” he answered without hesitation. “Fuckin’ masterpiece.”
“Is that Paul Thomas Anderson?” He opened his eyes, regarding me with muted surprise. I smiled and added, “Phantom Thread. Fuckin’ masterpiece.”
He groaned, shutting his eyes again. “You’re wrecking me, woman.”
My heart banged against my rib cage twice, three times. I licked my lips, unable to draw in a sufficient breath. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“Do I?” I stared, rapt, as he opened his eyes, keeping them focused on the ceiling. “Does that mean we’re not pretending it never happened anymore?”
He let out a small sigh. “Violet.”
I raised my hands innocently. “Hey, you’re the one who brought it up.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“Okay, well.” I took as deep a breath as my struggling lungs would allow. “I think we should talk about it because it did happen and it was…”
I trailed off as his eyes cut to me. The dull lamp behind me cast long shadows around us, framing his head, and he was so much more beautiful than he ever was as an intimidating stranger. I pitied anyone on the street whose eye he caught—they’d miss out on the things that made him shine like this.
“It was really fucking good,” he finished for me, his voice low, ragged. I felt it somewhere deep and untouched. A want so foreign, I was sure I was the first to ever feel it—or second, considering the look in Dex’s eyes.
“Yeah,” I exhaled. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
He swallowed. “I can’t stop. It’s on a constant replay in my brain.”
“That’s good. I was a little worried I was alone there.”
“Not alone. I am very present.”
“Are you?”
He broke away, leaning his head back against the couch. “I shouldn’t be. But yeah. I really am.”
“How present?” I asked softly, eyes roving over his face. That muscle in his jaw jumped predictably—I could read him in ways I never dreamed possible the day we met. So tightly wound, valiantly holding himself back from the things he wanted. God, I wanted to see him come undone again.
“Violet.”
His voice was a warning. Something about him tonight, only a cushion between us on the couch, the deep scent of timber and cinnamon surrounding us—he had me.
I couldn’t look away. He opened his eyes, meeting mine in the dull glow shining through the skylight.
The sensation of falling gripped me, room spinning, but Dex remained still, stoic, his eyes so dark, something flaring deep within them that sent a ripple of electricity through me.
I felt like a deer caught in a staring contest with an oncoming truck.
He unfolded his arms slowly, placing one hand on the cushion between us, the other on his thigh.
My eyes dropped with the movement. I inhaled sharply at the outline of him through his sweatpants, the hardness obvious against the thin fabric, and fuck, that ache between my legs returned with a vengeance.
Maybe we were both still keyed up from the elevator.
Maybe it had been just as long for him as it had been for me.
What are you thinking of doing to me? I thought, lifting my eyes back to his. I’d let you.
He let out a jagged breath and I wondered if he was a mind reader or if the desperation was written all over my face: Touch me, fuck me, hold me, break me. I’d take it all and say thank you.
I placed a hand on the cushion, close to his, accepting the invitation to this strange game of Chicken.
My other hand, seemingly of its own volition, drifted to my stomach.
Dex’s gaze slid down slowly as my chest rose in heady breaths, to my fingers twitching with the urge to move.
He swallowed, snapping his eyes back to mine.
Then he moved the hand on his thigh to his erection, adjusting himself with a pained expression, and I wondered what hurt more: the need or the want. The pressure building between my own thighs grew blinding. We needed relief.
It never happened, my brain whispered as my hand drifted lower, toying with the string of my pajama shorts.
Dex watched me, rapt, inhaling sharply as my hand slipped under the waistband.
I was wetter than I could ever remember being and at the first brush of contact, an involuntary sound scraped from my throat.
Immediately, any semblance of hesitation disappeared, overwhelmed by the need to come with his eyes on me.
I looked at him, breathing hard, fingers working exactly where I needed them, imagining they were his.
His lips parted as he watched me and then he squeezed his eyes shut, so briefly, and reached into his pants.
Stars filled my vision. He groaned at the first slide of his hand, and the second, and I synced up my movements with his, that slow, precise maneuver that would probably be considered making love if he were inside me.
But he was, wasn’t he? He’d overtaken everything, filling my head with a constant fog, and now here we were. Inevitable.
In the quiet room, our sounds were obscene.
Skin against wet skin, bitten moans, the couch whining against our soft movements.
We each kept a hand on the cushion. It didn’t take long for me to reach the point of gasping, of fractured, slippery movements anticipating relief.
It landed like a detonation, rocking through my whole body, overwhelming every thought, limb, cell.
The noises coming from me were unfamiliar.
This feeling was unfamiliar. I’d had plenty of orgasms, and yet coming on my own fingers with Dex’s eyes locked on me was the most intense experience of my life.
I couldn’t help reaching across the cushion, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, nails digging in as I rode out the release, and then he bent forward with a guttural groan.
Our heavy breathing soundtracked over the silence. I swallowed hard, dizzy, staring at the side of Dex’s head as his movements slowed to a statuesque stillness. My fingers were tight around his wrist.
Could we pretend this never happened?
Slowly, Dex withdrew his hand from my grip and climbed to his feet. “See you in the morning,” he murmured without looking at me and moved toward the bedroom, the door softly clicking shut behind him.
I’d expected this and still, my hopeful heart sank. He wasn’t mine to touch, to watch, to turn on, to keep. And I just kept reaching, hoping he might reach back.
But he did. Each time I plucked up the nerve to push a little harder, he pulled me right in, at least until reality dawned.
Dex didn’t seem like the type for games, so the logical answer was guilt.
Catalina was states away, closer to him than she’d been in years, and he kept looking at me.
I’ll love you forever, his letter said. We wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t true.
I had to stop holding on to this man whose heart belonged to someone else.
I needed to accept things as they were instead of wishing they were something else, something better.
I was beginning to wonder how thin the line was between hope and hopeless.
I sat there for a little too long, waiting, and I imagined Dex on the other side of the bedroom door doing the same thing.
I went upstairs.