55. Ari
Ari
Brody looks incredible. He’s wearing the jeans that give him the most perfectly peachy bum and a jumper in the same shade of blue as his eyes.
His hair has grown in the last two weeks and is flopping over his left eye in a way that is both rakish and makes me want to reach out to brush it away from his face.
“Ari,” he says. But his voice sounds odd, almost dull.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I turned up on his doorstep.
Actually that’s a lie. I had a whole scene mapped out in my head involving him lifting me up and swinging me round, of burying myself into the scent of him, of kisses and proclamations of love.
This man has made a deal with a demon for me.
I thought he might be a little more excited to see me.
“Hey Brody.” It’s almost a question, like I’m waiting for him to make a move, for him to tell me how this is all going to pan out.
“Uh, do you want to come in?” He brushes the hair from his eye as he steps backwards.
He’s nervous, that much is clear. But it feels like he’s nervous that he might be about to have a difficult conversation.
Nothing about this is what I’d hoped for.
I dreamt of a reunion and instead I got… well, whatever this is.
He leads me to his room, but he stops on the threshold.
“Little shitbags,” he whispers under his breath.
“Sorry,” he says at normal volume. “It’s just that my sisters were round earlier and they…
” he trails off as he looks around his room.
I don’t know what he’s looking for, everything looks immaculate.
Almost too good; I wasn’t expecting him to live in such a pristine space if I’m honest, I’m wondering if this level of cleanliness might be symptomatic of being a teeny bit anally retentive.
“What did they do?” I ask.
“They tidied.” He makes it sound like they did something awful, but I’m just relieved that this isn’t the usual standard I’d be expected to meet if things ever got serious between us. Ha. Look at me getting ahead of myself.
He invites me into the room and then closes the door behind us. I want to reach out and touch him, to pull him close and tell him I’m sorry for everything. Instead we sit awkwardly on the bed, half a metre between us.
“I…” he starts but then trails off. He angles his body so he’s facing me and I mirror him. He looks down at the duvet. “I…”
“I’m sorry,” I say, realising I need to be the one to lead this conversation.
None of this is because of Brody. I was the one who broke us and I should be the one to put us back together.
“I’m sorry for all the things I said that night.
I didn’t mean them, not for one moment, but I’m sorry I said them.
And I’m sorry for taking you to Hele House.
I’m sorry for thinking I was so clever that I could take you there and dress you up as a vampire and it wouldn’t end in a shitty mess.
I’m sorry I nearly got you killed. I’m sorry I made the deal with Victor and didn’t tell you.
I’m sorry for being a perpetual fuck up who can never get anything—”
He interrupts me. “I know you didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“But it still happened and I have to take responsibility for that.”
“I think I’ve realised over the last couple of weeks just how easy it is to make a potentially bad decision when you don’t see any alternative.” He flashes me a grin which morphs into a grimace.
“Clara really laid into you about the Victor deal, huh?”
“Yeah.” The grin returns. “She really didn’t hold back.”
“Why did you do it?” I ask softly.
“Why?” He cocks his head a little to the side. Then he reaches for my hand and a flicker runs up my spine. “Don’t you realise?”
I shake my head.
“I believe in you. I took the loan from Victor because I have absolute faith in you and Only Fangs.”
“You still want to build the app?” This isn’t where I thought this conversation was going. I thought… well I think that’s pretty obvious.
He squeezes my hand gently and I drag my eyes to meet his, trying to stuff down just how disappointed I am that this is about work. “I took the loan because I believe in Only Fangs. But I made the deal because I love you, Arianna Haywood. I love you and I would do anything to be with you.”
There’s a moment when all I see is hope in his soul, a fire burning for the future of us. “I love you too.”
And then he leans forward and his lips are on mine.
He tastes of peppermint. He smells of home.
I melt into him and he gently manoeuvres us to be lying on his bed, one leg wrapped around me to pull me in closer, his hand in my hair.
The kiss deepens and I feel myself letting go, giving in to the sensation of just being here, with him.
He pulls back from the kiss and looks at me. He smiles and there are crinkles in the corner of his eyes. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For coming back.” Then he kisses me again, softly, tenderly, his arm around my waist pulling me even closer into him.
I feel warm and safe in his arms, but also incredibly horny, the heat growing inside me. It’s a bizarre sensation, one I’ve never felt before. Perhaps this is love.
But I don’t have much time to think about it as he shifts his weight and begins to kiss my neck, trailing a line across my collarbone.
His hand merely grazes my breast and I gasp.
His eyes meet mine as he undoes the buttons on my shirt, revealing the gossamer thin lace bra I agonised over, desperate to find exactly the right underwear.
“Jesus, Ari,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. He sits back a little to better admire the view as I wriggle out of the shirt and fall back onto the bed. You can see my nipples through the black lace, standing proud and desperate to be touched.
Brody leans down and kisses the left one, his breath hot on the fabric.
He moves to the other and I groan in delight.
And then he’s leaving a line of kisses down my stomach, pausing at the waistband of my jeans to look me in the eye as he unbuttons them.
I gently lift my hips and help him slide them down, revealing the matching thong.
This time it’s definitely a growl that escapes from Brody’s lips as he looks at me. I want him to touch me. I want his tongue on me. He moves to kneel between my legs and I shift my hips a little in anticipation.
“I should probably…” he starts to say, but I can see his concentration is focussed on me and not on the words. He shrugs, as if to say the rest of the sentence wasn’t important anyway, and then pulls his sweater over his head. I reach out to touch his chest, but he gently pushes me back down.