Never Say Forever

As Fee twists back again, the sweater slips from her left shoulder, baring a pale slice of her skin. I immediately feel myself harden. Since when has a little bared shoulder become an erotic sight? Since it’s her shoulder would be the answer to that.

Another page turn, then she leans over the newspaper as though to read something at the top right-hand corner. She slides her hair over her right shoulder, twisting it to hold it in place. Images of coming up behind her to take her hair in my fist, then hold her in place while I tease her with my tongue and teeth flood my mind. Her body would stiffen with shock at first before she’d reach for me. Her lashes would flutter closed, and the noises she’d make—

It would be nothing like the sound she makes as she takes another pirate-sized swig of her drink. I find myself shaking my head at this secret glimpse of her. Brits do appreciate all things tea. Tea as an afternoon meal with sandwiches and scones. Tea cake; a dense confection with raisins. Teatime; a period between leaving work and an evening meal. Tea is the nation’s favourite drink, so they claim. The number one brew served piping hot and often the colour of red bricks. Though I believe it was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “A woman is like a tea bag; you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.’

Time to boil the kettle, angel.

I pound my fist on the open door. She spins in her seat to face me, banging her elbow on the edge of the table in her haste. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“I doubt you’d have heard even their entrance.” Not over the slurping.

“You nearly scared the pants off me,” she exclaims, slapping the newspaper shut.

I duck as though examining the validity, then give a shrug. What a pity. I wonder what she didn’t want me to see in the newspaper. Not that I think there’s anything in particular of interest in the Post.

“You didn’t hear me.” I tap my ear, indicating her earphones that she’d already pulled free, angry tinny music humming from them.

“How long have you been standing there? What are you doing here?” Sliding the buds from her ears, she discards them to the table, the music halting as she taps her phone.

“Do you have any idea how sexy you look.” It wasn’t quite the answer she was anticipating. Honestly, it comes as kind of a shock to me. “That slice of skin right here?” I tap my own shoulder. “It’s playing peekaboo through your hair like something I’m not supposed to see.”

“You’re titillated by my shoulder?”

“I’m hot for all of you.” I lean against the door frame, allowing my eyes to roam over her once more. I almost feel like I should apologise because last night should’ve been what we both needed to work this thing, this overwhelming attraction between us, out of our systems. But it hadn’t happened like that, going instead in the opposite direction. More attraction. More need. Heightened senses and heightened feelings.

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

It’s not irritation but skittishness she tries to conceal as she grabs her cup, almost sliding to the other side of the kitchen as though to put the maximum distance—and a marble island bench—between us.

“I came for clean shirts.” Maybe I should’ve said I came for my jacket, but it seems like a reasonable excuse, judging by her expression. Right now, I’d guess either is undoubtedly a much more welcome explanation than the admission because I had to see you.

“Oh. Okay.” She turns and dumps her still hot drink down the sink, her next question delivered carefully. “Are you staying in the city?”

“Yes. I have business here.” Unfinished business called Fee.

“In the place from last night?” She pivots back quickly, though her own expression is strangely blank. Or maybe carefully so.

“No.” I swallow my grin, allowing it instead to spread through my ribcage. That’s interest, right there. Aloof and unconcerned, she is not. She’s curious and maybe even a little jealous.

“What’s so funny?” She folds her arms across her chest, sending a glare my way.

You are, my sweet. Funny and a little feisty.

“I left right after you did last night. Just so you know, there was nothing that held my interest once you’d gone. Nothing and no one.”

“What you do with yourself is no concern of mine.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” she replies, her gaze refusing to hold mine.

“As for where I’m staying, I hear the YMCA has some pretty nice rooms.” Her expression softens, her arms too. She looks as though to speak when I ruin it by opening my big mouth again. “But I don’t really care to share a bathroom.”

“I don’t really care where you stayed or who you stayed with.”