Worst of all, I can still feel the connection, no matter how much I wish I couldn’t.
I try to make up for the slight by pressing soft kisses to his neck, his shoulder, his chest—basically any part of his beautiful, beautiful body that I can currently reach. He’s tensed up a little, which means he definitely noticed me avoiding his eyes, but as I kiss my way up his throat to that jaw of his, he slowly, slowly relaxes again.
“You okay?” he asks after another couple of minutes pass with us just breathing. Just being. The fact that he doesn’t try to look me in the eye this time should relieve me, but instead all it does is make me sad.
Sad that I disappointed him.
Sad that I maybe even hurt him.
Sad that I’m too scared of getting hurt—too scared of not being enough—that I can’t even try to give him what he wants from me.
I don’t say that, though, when he asks if I’m okay. I can’t. So instead I just nod against his shoulder. “I think I’m good. How about you?”
“I think you’re good, too,” he says with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle.
I groan and tug on a lock of his too sexy hair. “Cheesy, dude. Really, really cheesy.”
“Hey, now. Cut a guy some slack, will you? I’m pretty sure the last hour fried my brain cells.”
“More like half an hour and I am so not going to cut you any slack,” I tell him as I push against his chest. “I expect more than a giant ball of cheese from GQ’s Most Stylish Man.”
He actually blushes at the moniker, his skin going hot against mine as he buries his face in the curve between my neck and my shoulder. “God. That was at least five years ago. How did you hear about it?”
“It was three years ago and there’s this miraculous thing called Google. You should try it some time.”
“You googled me?” He lifts his face from my neck, and now he’s not looking embarrassed. He’s looking pleased. “You googled me. Does that mean you like me?”
“You just spent the last half an hour inside me, and you think the fact that I googled you is what says I like you?”
“It’s the information age, sweetheart.” The former Most Stylish Man of the Year pushes up on his forearms to give me the goofiest grin imaginable. “Nothing says I like you quite as much as knowing all your social media handles.”
“Then you’re screwed, because I don’t know any of your social media handles.” It’s a lie—I spent over an hour yesterday creeping his Instagram, but what Shawn doesn’t know won’t embarrass me. “Besides, the googling was total self-preservation. When I agreed to meet you alone in your house, I had to do my due diligence.”
When he just looks at me blankly, I roll my eyes. “I had to make sure there were no rumors about you. The last thing I wanted w
as to end up in a pit in your backyard, being starved so that you could make a G-string from my skin for yourself.”
“A G-string?”
“Dude. You’re twice my size. No way could you make a whole suit.”
“I don’t even know what’s most disturbing about what you just said. The fact that you thought I might Buffalo-Bill you or the fact that you think I’d wear a G-string made of human skin.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Stranger than The Silence of the Lambs?”
“I don’t know,” I answer with a shrug. “Do you like fava beans?”
He shakes his head, looks mystified. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or terrified by how your brain works.”
“A question pondered by many. If you want my suggestion, go with terrified.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sage the psychotic badass, with delusions of Hannibal Lecter.”
I cock my head to the side, pretend to think about it. “You’ve got to admit. It’s got a nice ring to it.”
“I’ve heard better.”