CHAPTER 4 NORA #2
“How do they look?” I ask when I’m done.
He tilts my head from side to side, guiding my chin with a gentle hand, tucks my hair behind both ears. “You look…” he says, pondering and solemn. “You look…”
“Nora, are we allowed to carve this turkey or what?” Faraz asks.
Finn drops his hand.
“It’s a guinea fowl,” I say, not looking away even after Finn smiles at Faraz over my head.
I want to climb onto the edge of my kitchen island, pry open Finn’s mouth and stick my fingers inside to find the words he was about to say.
But finally, I turn. “And yes, Faraz. You can carve it. Let’s eat, everybody. ”
Most of the tea lights have snuffed out, the tapers burned down to their ends.
The food has been picked through, dirty plates piled up in the sink that I will worry about tomorrow.
The music is quiet, the local countdown show plays on my TV on mute, though that doesn’t stop my friends from telling every story loudly as if they must yell to be heard; bless them.
I sit on the soft, shag living room rug with Bea and Meriah, my feet tucked under me, a glass in hand that I haven’t drank from since Brendan came around to refill it.
The picture of relaxation, poise. Except for the thrumming low in my belly.
The tension bubbling out of me with every laugh, every smile.
It’s almost time. Almost midnight. And I can tell myself a thousand times that I don’t need to kiss Finn Collins. But I want to.
Not for the data.
Not so I can tell Bea about it; though, in reality, I’ve never told her as much as I’d convinced myself I would.
Not even for the tradition.
I want to kiss Finn Collins at midnight because he’s beautiful and generous.
Because in the last twelve months, I’ve finally been comfortable, truly comfortable, calling him my friend.
My friend who I happen to want to kiss. And that’s maybe what makes my heart beat too hard, makes my fingertips tingle, makes me a little light-headed.
I want to kiss Finn, and he is my friend.
I want to kiss my friend. A man I’ve known my whole life but never took the time to like until now.
My stomach is an eternal knot about it. I wish I could sneak away to journal.
Bea taps the side of her coupe which does nothing to grab everyone’s attention, so she sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles. We all wince and cringe and shut up, her desired result.
She points solemnly to the TV, where the silent hosts make grand gestures, then at the city beyond, at the buildings that look like a thousand twinkle lights themselves. “It is time.”
I don’t know why I was so worried before, that Finn wouldn’t show up.
Or why I tried to convince myself I don’t want to kiss him.
Because Finn straightens where he leans against the kitchen counter, talking to Judith and Deepti.
He sets his glass down, not champagne, just water.
He picks his way through the technical terrain of people’s feet and bodies.
He stops in front of me. He holds out his hand.
I take my time as I let my gaze wander up his body. The argyle socks beneath his rolled pants, the Medusa belt buckle, the gold chain askew against his collarbone, his hair tucked behind his ears.
He pulls me up easily, pulls me against him, his body warm, familiar. He smells like Finn, like expensive cologne, and the leather couch in his living room, and Christmas. Someone opens the door to my postage-stamp balcony, cold air prickling my skin, contrasting with the heat of him.
The countdown starts, and my apartment is small, and everyone is crammed into the confines of the living room’s invisible border, but still they sound so far away.
Because Finn is here, his fingers at my collarbone, his hair falling into his eyes.
He smiles, a quirk of his lips, like Well, here we are again, and I wrap my arms around him, because yes, here we are. Right where I want to be.
I’m not sure if we make it to midnight. Not completely. It’s just that now that I have him, his lips inches away, how am I supposed to wait any longer for this moment, this year, this midnight, to start?
Finn sighs into my mouth, his tongue a soft exploration against my teeth.
His fingers drift across my temple to my ear, his thumb toying with his earring.
My earlobes have never been so sensitized, for with every brush of his thumb, I feel him between my thighs.
I press myself closer until I don’t know which heartbeat is his and which is mine.
Until I’m only his lips and my teeth and my smile and his soft, laughing huff of breath against my cheek when I try to climb higher up his body.
Midnight comes and goes and fireworks explode and a new year begins and it could be next year by now, it could be forever or a second. I count time by the rhythmic flex of Finn’s hand against my back now.
Eventually, he pulls away enough to rest his forehead on mine. Sound creeps back into the spaces between us, the pop and fizzle of the fireworks outside and the breathless laughter of our friends.
Finn clears his throat, straightens, but he doesn’t stop looking at me, like if we break eye contact one of us won’t be here anymore, a dream, a New Year’s wish.
“Everybody out,” Finn says, his voice hoarse. “I said, everybody out,” he repeats when only Bea and Faraz seem to hear him.
My cheeks flush with heat, the deep red visible in my peripherals, but I can’t stop smiling. Finally, Finn looks away to glare—he glares—at our friends.
“I know you heard me. You’re leaving now. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Bea smiles, pressing her face into Meriah’s shoulder as her back shakes with laughter. Faraz crosses his arms in mock indignation. Josh looks confused and Deepti a little scared.
“You heard him,” I say, though I’m not sure how well I project. I open my mouth, close it again. Smile, giggle. “Everybody out. Get out.”
And our friends, bless their sweet souls, do exactly that.
When the door finally clicks behind the last guest, Finn lifts me in over his shoulder.
“Griffin Collins,” I squeal.
He smacks my butt, partly, at least, for the use of his full name. His long legs carry me to the bedroom in a few easy strides before deposits me on the bed.
He stands there, admiring me in the dark. He’s looking at me like I’m a painting, a work of art he’s spent years on. Like I am a masterpiece he’s finally ready to pronounce finished. The fireworks are still going outside; they blast red and green and gold across my bedroom in flashes and blinks.
“Nora,” he says. “I want to fuck tonight.” His voice is unimaginably soft, a velvet runway for his crude words. “Is that okay?”
I’ve never felt like a particularly sexy person—what Bea has affectionately called a late bloomer, always with a level of innuendo I couldn’t fully process.
But maybe it was about finding the right person, about craving them, about the long game, the slow play.
Because with his words, the intent in his eyes, I bloom.
With slow movements, I lie back, lift my hips and hook my panties in my fingers, sliding them down my legs, offering them to him on the end of my toe.
And Finn, who can’t help but tease me, just a little, grins.
He leans down to my foot, takes my toes into his mouth, his tongue a gentle brush against the pads.
He takes my panties in his teeth and stands there for an excruciating moment, his smile widening, black lace hanging out of each side of his mouth, like a dog with his favorite toy.
“That’s okay,” I say, unwilling to let him shake me. “There are condoms in the drawer.”
Finn drops the panties. “That’s my girl,” he says, and I am a warm, sunlight-bursting-from-fingertips kind of incandescent at being his girl. “Always prepared.”
We undress, unhurried, but not slowly, either.
He helps me with the dress, careful of the delicate fabric, laying it gently over the bench at the foot of my bed.
When his clothes are in a pile on the floor, he climbs onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, his body large and looming over me.
The curtains are still open, the light from the city casting him in multicolor and shadow, the broad wall of his shoulders, the taper of his hips, the definition in his thighs, the jut of his cock.
“You let me know whenever you want to stop, yeah?” His hands make circles around my thighs, my hips. “But can I make you feel good for while?”
I run my hands up his chest. “Yeah.”
He pushes my legs apart, his body big enough to block out the light through the window, but still, I have to close my eyes to the anticipation, the pleasure of it all. He makes more soft circles on my stomach. “Nora? Baby?”
“Hmmm?” His hands on my skin are mesmerizing, melting me into the mattress while my nipples harden and skin pebbles.
“Are you wet?”
I moan, at his knowing, at how embarrassed I am. He can probably see it, the glisten on my skin in even this minimal light. “Yes.”
“Show me?”
I spread my legs wider, wider than they’d have any reason to be other than for him to see what his hands, his voice, can do to me.
He taps my cheek, and I open my eyes. He points to his mouth. “Give me a taste?”
“Finn,” I say in protest, because I don’t know what else I can say.
“Nora,” he mimics, and I snort at his attempt at my voice.
Lifting myself up, I press my teeth into his peck. He grunts, like he liked it.
“Please,” he says. “Show me?”
I slide my hand down my body, and he watches me, the whites of his eyes bright. I push my fingers inside, where I am wet, then hold them up for him, glistening in the dark.