Is that all?
Or does he need a reprieve? A chance to collect himself? And talk himself out of doing something very, very stupid.
And very, very wrong.
And very, very right.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Luna
I stop by the bathrooms. Pee, wash my hands, fix my lipstick. The pinkish red. The one that makes him tease.
It's totally ridiculous. What woman has ever thought gee, I better find a shade that makes me look like I love sucking cock?
Okay, I'm sure it's happened. It's probably the number one question on porn set makeup artists' minds. What red says ram me hard and come on my face?
Do guys actually want that?
Does Oliver?
I'm sure he watches porn. He's a guy. Most do.
Most women do too. I watch the occasional video, but most of it is too over the top, too violent, too much.
My imagination is plenty active.
When I close my eyes, I see him behind me. Wrapping his arms around my waist. Tugging at the zipper of my jumpsuit. Whispering in my ears. I want the entire store to hear you come.
Fuck.
Nope.
Not going there.
Going outside. To sit. And drink coffee. And not think about my parents lying to me.
Or about Oliver.
I really need less on the don't think about this list.
I take a deep breath, move around the corner, outside, to the patio area.
It's quiet but crowded. A mom and a girl in a stroller. Three people in laid-back attire, talking business. A couple sharing a scoop of ice cream from the place with a pale yellow food truck.
They're pretty good. Not too sweet. With a to die for coffee ice cream.
But coffee is a lot like chocolate. Best in its purest state.
I find a seat. A small table with a two-person bench. No room for restraint.
What good is restraint, really?
Wouldn't it be better if I told restraint to fuck off? If I climbed into Oliver's lap, hooked my arms around his neck, pressed my lips to his?
Does he taste like the toothpaste in his bathroom?
Like chocolate and coffee?
Is he already sipping the French press?
Fuck. I pull out my cell. Look for a pleasant distraction. Find only a call me when you're ready to talk from Divya.
Ugh, no.
Forget it.
I lean back—the bench is just off the wall—close my eyes, soak in the weather. It really is nice, just warm enough, just breezy enough, just bright enough the sun feels good on my skin.
Oliver turns the corner. I can recognize his steady footsteps without opening my eyes. Then the smell of his shampoo.
"They put it in takeout cups." He sets both on the table. Then the bars of chocolate. "Disgusting. I know."
"Only if you put cream and sugar in yours." I blink my eyes open. Watch him sit. "Because you thought I wouldn't see."
"It's my half of the coffee."
"Uh-huh."
"Shouldn't I drink what I like?"
"Sounds like crazy talk."
He chuckles you're ridiculous. Motions to the cups. "Only one way to find out."
It's a strange dare, but I'm not turning down the chance to sip extra java.
I wrap my fingers around the cup in front of me. A normal paper cup with a sleeve. The familiar feel of cardboard. The warmth of the liquid inside.
That hint of plastic lid. Then warm, dark, rich coffee.
Fuck. That's good. I let out a soft groan.
His pupils dilate. He watches as I pick up the second cup, taste a sip, swallow, groan.
The same coffee. No milk. No sugar. No additions but the lipstick marking the lid.
My lipstick marking his cup.
It's not enough. I want to see it on his skin.
Fuck.
I can't face my parents.
I can't stay across the hall without touching him.
I can't be anywhere.
Or maybe I can. Maybe it's worth it. To touch him and kiss him and risk everything.
"Proud of me?" he asks.
"I am."
"For once." His voice is teasing, but there's a sadness in his eyes. It hurts. That he's disappointed people.
I want to say something. To soothe him. Explain how much he means to me. How much I value this relationship. Whatever it is. But I don't know how to say that without changing everything. So I pick up the single-origin chocolate bar. "Shall we?"
He nods go for it.
I unwrap the paper. Then the foil. There's a long, thin bar, in four pieces. I break it in half. Then quarters. I leave three on the foil, bring one to my lips.
Fuck.
It's so good. Too good.
My eyes close.
My senses flood. Rich, fruity, chocolate. It has the intensity of dried figs. Caramel. Raisin.
The depth of flavor. One on top of another.
I groan as it dissolves on my tongue.
"Are you eating that or fucking it?" There's no irritation in his voice. Only deep, pure need.
And I need his need. I need the world to make sense. To be someplace beautiful and comforting and warm.
God, he's so handsome.
So sexy. With those intense blue eyes, that dark hair, those strong arms.