“I don’t know. You just seem a little…”
Like an ominous statue of yourself.
“I was just thinking what movie we should watch.”
“Oh. Oh. You mean…right now?”
“Well, that’s what you came to get me for.”
“That’s true, I did come and get you for that.”
“Unless you don’t want me in your room so late.”
“No, no why would I…no, that’s cool.”
“You’re in the Haverford Building, right?”
She had the strongest urge to ask him how he knew. But that seemed just as weird as objecting to him being in her room.
Instead she pointed, then wished she hadn’t. Her bare arm brushed his face.
His stubble-bristled, firm-jawed, weirdly tense-seeming face.
“Yeah. You just go past the science block and then—”
“Right, right, right I got it, I got it. The statue of MLK is outside it, yeah?”
“That’s the one. Then it’s the third floor. Don’t worry though, there’s an elevator.”
“Ah, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Feel like I could carry you around forever.”
Her whole body seemed to flush at that, though she had no idea why. It wasn’t an insult. In fact it veered very close to a compliment—one that rang true, too. He was no more tired when he got to her door than he had been when they started out. He didn’t even put her down right away, which gave her a moment of panic.
Someone was going to see eventually, if they were just standing out here with her on his back.
It seemed like a miracle no one had already, despite the time. His footsteps were pretty heavy, and Lydia in particular was a very light sleeper…
“Do you wanna let me unlock the door?”
“Oh shit, yeah. Yeah, go ahead,” he said, and she slid off his back gratefully. Those big hands stopped squeezing high up on her thighs; her front no longer had to endure the heat of his broad back. Everything had returned to the way it should be now between them.
Except for the sexy movie they were now going to watch.
Alone. Together. On her bed. In the middle of the night.
Chapter 13
She let him pick the movie, thinking that would make things easier somehow. Nothing could be misconstrued, at least, that way. He wouldn’t think she meant anything by her choice, whatever it might be. But she forgot that he might mean something with his choice. She watched the heroine trying to clumsily pick up the hero at the start of White Palace, and cringed so hard it felt more like a cramp in her gut. Her cheeks grew hot, in a way that made her grateful for the dim light of her feeble bedside lamp.
Otherwise he would see her face go red and know she understood his point—despite the fact that his point was fucking nonsense. She hadn’t tried to seduce him with all that pool touching. She would never, ever try to seduce him. It was just all a big misunderstanding.
But how to explain that?
“This is even less realistic than Dirty Dancing.”
“Really? You think so? Like, in what way?”
“It just seems like she keeps pushing and pushing. No woman would push a guy that good-looking if he didn’t seem into it. I can’t think of anything more embarrassing.”
She didn’t look at him, but knew he shrugged.
His arm rubbed against hers as he did it.
“Maybe she doesn’t care.”
“I guess not.”
“Maybe she knows he’s actually into it.”
“That could be one explanation.”
“Plus she obviously gets exactly what she was looking for.”
Onscreen, Susan Sarandon was going down on James Spader.
Which to her didn’t seem to back up his point at all.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure she’s having a great time getting absolutely nothing out of this.”
“That’s what this looks like to you? Like she’s getting nothing out of this?”
“Well, in movies they make it look like she is. But I doubt she really would be.”
“You doubt that giving a guy a blow job could be enjoyable for a woman.”
She glanced at him then, just to see if his expression was as incredulous as his voice.
Then had to look back at the screen quickly. If anything, his expression was worse. He had one eyebrow raised, and there was almost no humor in his eyes. This was serious somehow.
Much too serious.
“I don’t know. I mean it’s not really something you do for your own enjoyment. You do it for his.”
“So to you there’s nothing pleasurable about it. Nothing sexy about having a guy at your mercy. Begging you, moaning for you, trying not to push too deep when it gets too good.”
“You do those things?”
The words came out too fast. Too disbelieving, too.
But she just couldn’t stop them. They ripped out of her before she had time to talk it over with her mind, all ragged around the edges and maybe a little breathless. Just enough that he likely heard it, and wondered why. She couldn’t tell him, however. She didn’t know herself.