Page 67 of Mixed Signals
“Do you want to practice in bed?” I ask her. I try not to blush, but it’s inevitable. I can’t fight it back when I’m picturing us together, twisted in her sheets. I bet they have strawberries on them, too. Maybe tiny cupcakes. “Do you want our arrangement to be physical, too?”
Her mouth gapes open. She moves it soundlessly like the words she wants are somewhere out of reach. Far, far out of reach. That is … probably not a great sign.
I try to pull away but she grabs my hands and holds on tight. “Why?” she manages.
“Because,” I say. “Because you deserve to have someone try.”
Her lips twitch at the corners and her hazel eyes narrow. “Any other reasons?”
This time when I untangle my fingers from hers, she lets me. I hover my hand over the smooth line of her jaw, watching the way she responds to me. Her head tilts to the side and I trace my knuckles down the soft skin of her neck, lower to the delicate jut of her collarbones. I trace one and then the other, dip my finger down to the warm skin between her breasts. I can feel the steady drum of her heartbeat. Every exquisite inhale.
I do have another reason. A selfish one.
“Because I want to watch you come undone,” I tell her, my voice a rough scratch. I look up and make sure I’m holding her eyes. “Because I want to be the one to do it.”
Fuck, I want it more than anything. I want to know what she looks like with my hands on her bare skin. I want to know what shapes my thumbs might make against her hips, her thighs, the curve of her ass. I want to know how she sounds with my mouth against her neck and her body flushed warm beneath mine. If she sighs or moans or bites down against sweat-slicked skin. I want to know all of the secrets she hasn’t shared with me yet, everything I might unravel with our bodies together.
With Layla, I justwant.
Her eyes pitch darker. Moss green. Thick branches in a heaving summer storm. Her lips part as her eyes dance between mine, weighing the truth of my words.
“That’s a good answer,” she finally says.
I hum and take two steps back. I have to. If I don’t, I’ll tuck my hand beneath her thighs and urge her up on the countertop. I’ll kiss her and kiss her and kiss her until I have my answer. I won’t be the polite gentleman I want to be with her.
I turn to the cutting board and blindly grab another tomato. I start chopping with shaking hands. I feel like I've just been kicked out the side of an airplane without a parachute. I don’t know if I’m breathing or just wheezing. I’ve never been so bold with a woman in my life.
I turn the tomato and chop from the other end. The pieces are horrendously misshapen. It’s a wonder I don’t slice my thumb clean off.
“I think I’d like that,” Layla says over the sound of the knife. I pause and look at her over my shoulder. She’s standing with her back to the sink, both of her hands tucked behind her and her eyes heavy on mine. Her hair is slightly mussed and the collar of her shirt is twisted to the side, the rise and fall of her chest tugging me into some sort of hypnotic trance. Again.
She looks gorgeous.
“With you,” she clarifies and the rigid line pulling my shoulders tight eases, settles. The weight resting on my lungs lessens.
It matters that she wants this with me, specifically. That she trusts me enough.
Layla smiles at me softly and pushes herself off the sink. She scans the counter, looking for the produce she was in the middle of washing. Her eyes are contemplative. Thoughtful. Like she’s making a list and checking it twice.
I swallow hard.
“With you, I think I’d like that a lot.”
We eat our dinner.
Layla sits at one side of the table and I sit at the other.
We make conversation like we didn’t agree over a smashed tomato on the floor to make our relationship a physical one.
We talk about my classwork at the school. About Jeremy’s progress with Lydia and how a couple of other kids have shown up asking for my help translating their notes. Layla calls it mylove clubwith an adorable, snorting laugh that makes me feel like someone’s trying to wrench my heart out of my chest through my throat. We talk about her upcoming photoshoot and the little custards that she’s finally perfected. Beignets and brioche and baguettes with fig jam.
I only get hard twice when she uses fancy baking terms. I consider that a small miracle.
We don’t talk about our conversation in the kitchen again.
Layla wants to. I can see it every time she looks at me, anticipation in her eyes and in the curl of her hands around her glass. One of her socked feet nudges mine beneath the table and my knee jolts so hard into the solid oak top that my glass goes tilting to the left. I catch it before it can spill.
Layla hides her smug smile behind her fingertips.
