“My apologies for earlier,” he says quietly. I freeze. “I promise to control my…thoughts better today.”
“Thoughts? I thought it was reactions. Can anyone really control thought?”
“For your sake, I hope so.” He chuckles. Then before I can interrogate, he continues. “Now, let’s start this over. What would you like to do today?”
I file his thought-control issues for future study. “Let’s go out somewhere.”
He stills and tenses. “Where?”
I’m lost for an instant in his reaction. Is it resistance to going out generally? Or a specific place? I know where I really want to go. I want to go to his Alone Place, but I can’t invite myself there just because I did the same for him.
“There must be a place you like in Portland, Oregon.”
“Oh no, this was your idea.”
“All right, one of my favorite writers is speaking at Powell’s City of Books. We can go watch him and then roam about? They have something there I’d like to show you.”
He smiles but his shoulders don’t relax. “Who is the writer?”
“Nigel Fleming. He’s a scientist, actually. My dad and I relied on his Chemistry of Conscience for the article we wrote together.”
He watches me, his eyes calculating. “Elisa, what if I could arrange for him to give us the talk in private? Would you like that? That way we don’t have to deal with crowds and lines.”
I gasp. Private talk by Nigel Fleming? Bloody hell! There is no chemist I know who wouldn’t raise a beaker to that.
“You can do that?” I say, my voice thick with awe.
He smiles. “There are some benefits to being me. Is that a yes?”
I pause for sense to return. “Aiden, that’s really thoughtful, but no, I can’t let you do that. It will cost a fortune. Let’s just go hear him. I’ll enjoy it just as much, especially with you there.”
His shoulders are still tense. “I won’t even feel the cost for this. I’d like to do this for you. And for myself because quite frankly, I’m not waiting in line or standing in a crowd.” His voice is harder for some reason.
“But it’s too much.”
He sighs and pulls out his phone from his back pocket.
“Aiden, what are you doing?”
“Saving the day.” He presses one button and before I can blink, someone answers.
“Benson, find the PR for a Nigel Fleming and arrange to extend his talk at Powell’s today for a private audience… Yes… ASAP… Then reserve Powell’s for the afternoon… All of it… Top, of course… Thank you. Call me with details.” He hangs up and looks at me as though he does this every day.
I try to remember English, blinking, breathing or anything in between but cannot. Bloody hell, he just rented Fleming and two enormous city blocks! Why? I won’t lie, it has been a fantasy to have Powell’s all to myself but this is madness. Who does this just to avoid waiting in line?
“Breathe, Elisa,” he chuckles, blowing gently on my face.
The cinnamon scent brings me back to my senses. “Aiden, thank you. Truly. But I think you’re barking mad.”
He chuckles again. “You’re more right than you know. Now, will that suffice or do we need a psychoanalysis session about all the reasons that led me to that decision?”
He is smiling with his dimple, knowing he has won. Helpless to reverse what just happened, or to resist his smile, I give in and kiss his cheek.
“I’m a chemist, not a psychoanalyst, which means I notice facts. And now I know you like lip biting, eternity and the night, but you don’t like going outside or being around people. Therefore, I conclude you’re a vampire.”
His laugh echoes in the room. “I won’t tell Denton or Fleming about this lapse in scientific judgment. But you’re right, I do like biting you.”
He starts kissing me in a way that stops all thought. His fingertips travel up my thighs. At his taste, the morning’s contradictions dissolve and the rest of the world disappears. My body comes alive. New though everything is, I remember him as if from a different time. Not from the past. Maybe from the future. I get lost in his lips, his tongue, his fingers flying over my skin. Higher. Higher. He slides my knickers to the side, running a single finger there, and sighs. I press myself eagerly against him. Another finger joins the torment like he is playing the piano.
“Does this hurt?” he whispers.
My legs begin to shake and the only sound I can produce is a moan.
“Apparently not.”
He unzips his fly, keeping his eyes on me as he produces a condom from his back pocket and rolls it over himself. His arm snakes around my hips. I close my eyes, waiting to see whether the feeling will be as otherworldly as it was yesterday. But he doesn’t move. I open my eyes and he smiles.