From the way he smirks I know he’s not talking about the river. He has this way of looking at me, his head tilted to the side, the corner of his mouth quirked up. It’s an expression of intent that lights a fire deep inside. I cross my legs and try not to squirm, but my body has other ideas.
My discomfiture worsens when he places his sketchpad on the table and walks over. Putting his hands on my hips, he swings me round until he’s standing right between my thighs. When he leans down his eyes are bright and fierce, as though he can read every dirty thought that’s going through my mind.
“Do you have a thing for boats?”
“What? No!” I try to laugh but he’s too close and the impulse dies in my throat. Instead I try to breathe.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?” He runs a finger up my bare arm and I shiver.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me inside you as much as I do.”
Oh my God.
His words are enough to chase every thought out of my mind, as if there’s only enough space for him. When he leans down to press his mouth against mine, I close my eyes and melt into him, clutching at the back of his t-shirt as if he’s the only one who can save me. Kissing him back, our lips move slowly, our tongues sliding together as though we have no other choice.
But there’s a choice and I’ve made it. I choose him.
He drags his lips down my neck and I wrap my legs around his waist, threading my fingers through his hair. His hands reach under me, palms digging into my behind as he pulls me closer to him, our bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels more natural than breathing. I arch my back and grab fistfuls of his shirt, desperate to feel him close.
When I slide down from the window he seems as surprised as I am. Even more so when I drop to my knees and run my finger down the front of his jeans. He stops breathing. When I look up at him from my position on the floor I can see his eyes reflecting sunlight as he stares down at me. His
cheeks are flushed, his lips have fallen open. I try to hide my smile at his obvious shock. Taking my time, I unclasp his belt and button, slowly dragging the zipper down. Not once losing eye contact with him. He’s as still as a statue.
“Are you sure?” His voice is low and thick.
I smile when I nod because there’s something so perfect about his concern. Niall can be strong and determined when he wants to be, but here—in this room, towering above me—he’s not afraid to be vulnerable. To make sure this is all okay.
He makes me feel safe and I love that about him.
God, I love everything about him. My chest is full of that knowledge. I’m not ready to say it yet, but it’s in every glance I take, every touch of his skin. It’s in the way I curl my fingers around him and try not to smile when he gasps short and low. And when I finally take him in my mouth it’s in the way I stare up at him. I know he can feel it.
He gently cups my head, staring down through fevered eyes, and I feel it right back.
“Beth.” His voice is little more than a breath.
I drag my tongue against his tip, watching as his jaw slackens, his head dropping forward. I glance at him through my lashes, meeting his gaze. Though his eyes are half-shut, I can still see the heat there.
I can taste it too. He hardens in my mouth, hips rocking involuntarily. When his breath starts to shorten, I take him deeper, feeling him drag against my lips. Then he stops moving and his breath catches as he tries to pull out, to move away. But I don’t want to let him go. Instead I grasp his thighs and suck him deeper still, letting him take over all my senses. And when he comes, spilling inside my mouth, he whispers my name again.
It sounds a lot like love.
* * *
The following week I meet Simon inside a smart restaurant just off Upper Street. Arriving early—a sure-fire sign of my nervousness—I order a small gin and tonic. I sip it as I sit at the table and wait for him. Even on a Thursday night the restaurant business appears to be booming. The room is full of smart couples and businessmen, soft conversations and clinking glass. I feel lost amongst the gentility, like a child dressed up in her Sunday best. The tight black dress I’m wearing feels uncomfortably restricting, and I keep pulling at the neckline to give myself room to breathe.
Simon arrives a few minutes after seven. He has that ‘straight from the office’ look. His shirt is lightly crumpled and his sleeves rolled up. From the way his thin hair falls in disarray, I don’t think he checked himself in the mirror before he left. Still, as soon as he sees me sitting at the table his expression softens and a genuine smile forms on his lips.
“You look beautiful.” He presses his lips to my cheek. “How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?” I sound polite and measured. This is how relationships die; one careful word at a time.
“I’m okay.” He pauses and guilt unfurls its wings, fluttering in my belly. “Getting used to things.”
Thankfully, the waiter chooses that moment to interrupt us and bring our menus over. Simon orders a whisky—stronger than his normal aperitif—and takes the wine list, asking if I’d prefer red or white. When we’ve ordered he removes his reading glasses, and I notice the bruise-like circles under his eyes.
“You look tired.”