I want her. Goddammit, I want her here and now as I feel her body shudder against mine, as though a draught had just run along the hallway. It’s the moment she gives in, relaxing into my kiss. My whole being is gratified—elated—by the way she responds to me, by the way she tilts her head, allowing me access to the silky skin of her neck. The tiny hitch in her breath and the way her body unconsciously moves with mine, she’s like a flower following the rays of the sun.
She makes it too easy for me, really. She moans softly, signalling the moment she truly lets go.
I force myself to release her. To pull away.
She is so beautiful. The way the light falls casts a shadow across her cheekbone, highlighting the moisture against the soft, fullness of her lips. Her lashes lie like dark crescents across her pale skin. She is everything I’ve ever wanted and never thought to dream of. As if I’d never see her walk past me on a street. As if I’d ever be able to resist her. Too easy, yet so regrettably hard as her eyes flutter open. I see the confusion there and suffer such a pang of regret.
“What . . .?”
“Yes, exactly. What are you doing?”
“Working my notice?” A crease forms between her brows. She looks more hurt than annoyed.
“No, Holland. What are you doing. Here. With him. And don’t give me any of that bullshit about dating him. You can barely stand to sit next to him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know a lot more than you give me credit for. I know you’re scared. I know that you think it’s me you don’t trust, but it’s more that you can’t trust yourself.”
“You know nothing about me,” she says, her gaze flashing.
“I know he doesn’t kiss you the way I kiss you. I know you don’t bloom like a flower for him, spread yourself wide on the kitchen table and beg for his touch.”
“You’re a pig.” She raises her hands as though to push me away, but I catch her arms.
“And you’re like a miser with a pocket full of pennies. You’re just not willing to part with the necessary, darling. Especially not with him.” She winces, and I realise my fingers have tightened, but fuck it, I won’t let go.
“I’m with Griffin now,” she retorts, her expression hardening. She tries to pull free from my hold. “Let go. You’re hurting me.
“I know, you’re just a delicate little flower,” I find myself growling.
“I didn’t say that.”
“A delicate, fucked-up, horny little flower.” I enunciate the words so clearly while she looks at me as though she’d happily punch me in the face. “A little flower who, if she isn’t careful, will end up being fucked by my brother.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A little flower that lies.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Face the facts, Holland. Your little act didn’t fool anyone tonight. But the longer you keep it up, the more danger you’re in.”
“Just because I won’t let you feel me up!”
“Wouldn’t you?” I drawl, despite my heart beating out of my skin. She’d have to touch me to know it, which isn’t going to happen this evening. But soon. “It didn’t seem too much of a stretch a few moments ago.”
“You are . . . despicable.”
Uncurling my fingers, I press my shoulders against the wall behind me. I might look like a bored aristocrat, but the cool plaster grounds me. Reminds me of my purpose as I slide my hands into my trouser pockets.
“This from the woman who would have the world believe she’d jumped from my bed to my brother’s while the sheets were still warm.”
We’ll call this an artistic liberty, and not just because we seem more suited to tables and walls. Not just artistic but also cruel, I decide, as, with a pang of regret, I watch the heat leave her eyes. Like a candle blown out. I brace myself, expecting some retort as she inhales deeply, her shoulders rising along with her chin. But no, she treats me with more grace than I deserve and possesses more dignity than a queen as she turns her back on me without speaking a word.
She begins to walk away, and I do the only thing I can for now.
I let her go.
37
Holly
I feel like something that was chewed up, spit out, then trodden on by a heavy boot this morning, but I guess I brought that on myself.
From my bed to his while the sheets were still warm . . .
Alexander’s words continue to haunt me as I find myself wandering through the long gallery, the solemn faces of Isla’s and Alexander’s faces staring down at me . . . along with Batman and Spiderman, I see, as I pluck the plastic figurines down from the bottom corners of a particularly thick and ornate frame.