Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
My face must have shown my surprise because a crimson flush begins to creep along her cheeks and chest.
"God, that sounds creepy when I say it out loud. I just mean ... I know your schedule. It's why I'm on the balcony at exactly 6:15. You always run by at 6:17."
"I extend my route to see you on the balcony.”
Her jaw drops. "Wait. You've been watching me, too?"
"Yeah."
"That's ... kind of creepy."
"You're not exactly in a position to complain, are you? And, you wrote me a letter, remember, detailing what you want me to do to you. We're definitely even, I’d say.”
She flattens both palms on her cheeks. "Oh my God, I can't believe I did that."
"I can't believe you thought I wouldn't respond."
"So, what if I chickened out? What if I'd taken the card back? What if I denied, feigned ignorance, I mean, just pretended I knew nothing about it?”
"I would've come to you eventually."
"Really?"
"Been working up to it for months. You just made it easier."
Her eyes meet mine, something new in them. Something wondering.
As we share tiramisu for dessert, Emily licks her spoon, and my brain blanks for a solid ten seconds, especially in light of what she wrote in that note. I'm already so hard to the point of pain, and this is just dinner.
By the time we leave, the night has grown colder, and I have never been so fucking aroused in my entire life.
My hand brushes hers once, twice. The third time, she hooks her pinkie around mine. It's not quite holding hands, but it's something. See, I'm a grown man in my thirties, but something as small as this makes something take flight in my stomach.
Great. Just great.
We're back at our apartment floor half an hour later, and Emily is back to being a nervous wreck. "D-do you want to come in? For a drink or ... I have wine. Or coffee. Or I could make tea. I don't actually have tea, but I could—"
"Emily."
She looks up. "Yeah?"
"I'd like that. You don't have to make excuses. Just invite me in."
She nods, unlocks her door, and we step inside.
Her apartment is exactly what I expected. Warm. Soft lighting from lamps and strings of small lights. Smells like peppermint and coffee. Cozy, lived-in, everything Emily.
A tabby cat appears, and I swear it glares at me. In all my life, no one has dared to glare at me like that. No one. Yet this Garfield wanna-be somehow found the audacity.
"That's Croissant," Emily says. "He doesn't usually like strangers."
The cat sniffs my shoes, seems unimpressed, and walks away with his tail high.
"Wine?" she asks, already moving to the kitchenette.
"Sure."
We sit on her couch, a careful distance between us. The cramped space in her apartment feels charged now, tension so thick I can taste it. No restaurant noise or other people. Just her and me— because the cat doesn't count.
She swirls her wine. "I can't believe you actually wanted to have dinner with me."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Have you seen you? And then, you know, me."
My eyebrows furrow. "What about you? What’s wrong with you? Out with it. What is it, kleptomaniac? Closet serial killer? How many closets have you killed?”
“Stop it! I’m just ... ordinary and honestly not much to look at. You're..." She waves her hand from my head to my shoes.
"Emily, I don't know how you see yourself, but you're far from ordinary."
"You don't have to say that."
"I don't say things I don't mean, Emily. What do you mean you're not much to look at? I've been looking at your for months, and I very much like what I see."
"Okayyy." She looks at me over her wine glass. "The card. I'm still embarrassed about it."
"Don't be."
"But it was so ... explicit. And crazy. And I meant parts of it, but not like, the illegal public parts. Just the ... other parts. I've thought about you. A lot. Maybe too much."
I set my glass down and lean forward, close enough that I can count the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. "How much?"
She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. "Enough that I probably shouldn't say."
"Tell me anyway."
Emily's breath hitches, and she sets her glass down on the table, too. "I meant the part about your hands. And your mouth. And I know I wrote all that stuff about the elevator and being up against the wall, and that probably sounds insane, but I just—"
With my pulse pounding in my temples, I reach out and cup her jaw in my palm. She gasps and goes quiet.
"Emily, if I kiss you right now, are you going to regret it in the morning?"
"No."
"Are you sober enough?"
"Yes."
"Tell me to stop if you change your mind."
I give her three seconds. One. Two. Three. She doesn't move or speak. Just looks at me with those blue eyes, wanting, mirroring my own desire.