Page 83 of (Not) The One
‘But shouldn’t we wait until I’ve been to see the doctor? I mean, it might be a false positive, or whatever they call it.’
‘Do you think so?’ Dipping my knees, I bring my gaze level with hers. ‘What do you feel?’
‘Like, woman’s intuition?’ She quirks a brow. Rebuffed, I straighten. ‘I’ll tell you what I feel,’ she says suddenly. ‘I feel awful. Tired and weepy, and I’ve been putting it down to other things. But the fact of the matter is, it seems like I’ve done nothing but vomit for days. And it’s the pits. And I’m sort of scared.’ She swallows thickly, her gaze sliding away. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m tired of pretending everything is okay.’
‘Come home with me,’ I repeat, sliding a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘We can talk.’ Really talk. Not fuck, it seems.
She nods once, leaning into my touch, and something tightens in my chest.
‘I’ll come home with you, but sex is off the table.’
‘When it was so good?’ Her eyes narrow, her hand drawing back. ‘On the table. In the bed. Ah-ah,’ I singsong, catching her hand before it strikes again. But she’s smiling, and so am I. And, Christ, I want to kiss her again. Kiss to compliance—kiss her until she melts into me and forgets about each of her worries.
I’ll keep them for her if she’d let me.
‘Just come home with me.’
‘Justcome home with you?’
‘Yes, just. No expectations. No demands. Come just because you want to.’
And surprisingly, I find I mean that.
* * *
I came here by cab, and as Miranda had her car, she drives. As I rule, I like to drive. I live and work in the same enclave of London, so I often walk to work. I have a driver for the days I don’t, or for when I need to get to the airport or go somewhere farther afield. Being driven frees up my time for work—calls, emails, and the like.So when I get the chance to drive, I usually do. Or else I ride my bike, which is an easier way to traverse London, though I prefer taking it out on longer rides through country lanes. It’s a big boy’s toy, basically. So being driven home by Miranda this evening is a novel experience. She drives an older model Mini Cooper, so it isn’t the most comfortable of experiences, but I find myself twisted in my seat anyway, unable to take my eyes off the girl in the driver’s seat.
Something tells me that this could be the perfect analogy for our relationship going forward.
‘I wish you’d stop staring at me,’ she murmurs.
‘You know, I never realised how erotic that tiny slice of pale wrist is.’
‘What?’ Her answer is tremulous with laughter. ‘My wrist?’ Her gaze flicks down, perplexed.
‘Hm. Erotic and elegant. I realised that just as you flicked your blinker.’
‘Yes.’ Her narrowed gaze drifts to mine as we stop at a set of lights. ‘Because that soundedsoinnocent.’
‘A flash of the wrist is very innocent. It’s almost on par with a Victorian kind of thrill.’
‘While I... flick my blinker? Really?’
God, this woman’s laughter. I could bottle it. Drink it. Not that I allow her to know the effect it has on me.
‘Why, Miranda,’ I drawl, ‘I’m shocked that you would imagine such a thing, let alone mention it.’
‘Yeah, I see you clutching your pearls,’ she retorts mockingly as we start to move again.
‘Is that another euphemism?’ I want to reach out and touch her, brush my fingers through her hair or place my hand on her knee, but despite joining in verbally, something tells me she wouldn’t welcome my touch. It’s almost as though her body vibrates, strung taut like a bow. ‘Because clearly, I’m not.’ My gaze drifts southwards to my crotch. From the corner of hers, she follows. ‘But I can if that’s something you’d still like to see.’
She bites her lip to stave off an answer, but I think we’re both remembering the same thing.
I thought of you when I came by my own hand.
My cock twitches and, if I’m not mistaken, her breath pattern changes, speeding up. But the moment passes, and she eventually musters a bland reply.
‘No comment. And I think we should change the subject. Speaking of wrists, would you like to hear a little Australian trivia?’
