Scandalized

“Don’t be.” He rests a hand on my hip, squeezing. His finger lands on the stretch of skin where my shirt has risen from the waistband of my pants, and he traces long, slow ovals there.

His neck is so close to my mouth. Inviting and warm. I press my lips to his pulse point and hear the sharp intake of his breath; his hand flexes against me, instinctively grabbing. Low in my belly, the familiar hunger flares, pushing aside everything else. “Do you want to?” I ask.

“I always do.” Alec’s voice is so low it shakes my blood. “But would you feel better or worse?”

I hadn’t considered that.

I press my hand to his chest and he shifts his hips away. Beneath my palm, his heart is a steady bum-bum-bum.

Not just his heart; all of him is steady. He doesn’t leave things left unsaid, and he wants to know me, and he came to find me in the bathroom, and he knew why I was in there. He knew, because it occurred to him that I could have left.

“Come here,” he says, and shifts me so that I’m lying on top of him. But it isn’t for sex. It’s the way we were on the couch, with his body as my firm mattress, his shoulder as my pillow, and him groaning quietly at the relief of a full-body cuddle. “Let’s sleep.”

“I had a bad dream,” I admit after a few seconds of silence.

His deep voice vibrates against my temple. “About what?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He strokes my back and says very quietly, “I’m never going to lie to you, you know.”

Squeezing my eyes closed, I press my face into his neck. I don’t know where to put everything I feel but I’m going to have to figure it out. I don’t think I’ll have anywhere left to hide my excuses and these bright, urgent feelings once his gentle light illuminates each of my dark corners.

Thirteen

Without Alec, the hotel room feels enormous and eerily quiet. Daylight streams in, painting a band of gold across the bottom half of the bed. I straighten my legs, inching my toes into the stripe of warmth.

The windows are such good quality that they block out all the street noise outside. The sheets beneath me still smell like Alec’s soap from his shower last night. I roll into his pillow, placing myself in an Alec isolation chamber.

I tried to read for a while; I tried to write. But I’m unfocused, antsy. Why didn’t I pull him over me last night? Why did we bother to sleep? I need to start working on a new story between the bursts of new information from Ian, need to fill my days better. Being in this suite without Alec all day long is going to leave me itchy and impatient.

I run my hand down my stomach, wishing it was his.

The Batphone buzzes on the mattress next to me.

My heart pushes against my ribs, and I bring it to my ear, answering. “You’re not supposed to be done until late.”

He hums. “What’re you doing? You sound drowsy.”

“You just busted me relaxing in this huge bed.”

He laughs and then groans.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I’m a dick.”

“Why on earth are you sorry?”

“Because you’re running all over Los Angeles,” I say, “and I’m lounging in your hotel room in the middle of the day.” If memory serves, Alec got up at three for a satellite interview for Good Morning America, drove to Burbank for a taping of James Corden, and then had a full-cast Vanity Fair photo shoot before some gala dinner.

“It’s your room, too,” he says, “and I would lounge in bed in a heartbeat if I could.”

“Exactly.” I laugh. “That’s why I’m sorry.”

“Come on. With everything you’ve had going on the past few weeks, you must be exhausted.”

I stretch, limbs shaking with euphoria. “You aren’t wrong.”

The line falls quiet and still. I miss you, I think.