You, Again(70)

Which is not to say that she’s quiet. She’s surprised to hear herself whimper—a pathetic whine that confirms how easy it would be to lose control. Ari lowers her gaze into his parka-covered chest because if they stare at each other like that while this is happening, it’s just…way too much.

When the elevator gears grind to an abrupt halt at the fifth floor, they stumble into the apartment. Ari takes the opportunity to reset expectations. Lingering too long at this part will make it impossible to explain it all away tomorrow.

“Take this off,” she orders, tugging at his parka, regaining a bit of her composure. “Take everything off.”

If he’s a bit thrown by the shift in tone, it doesn’t make him less cooperative. He lets his jacket drop to the ground without so much as a wince.

Ari steps out of her boots, hastily grabbing the fabric of his shirt in her fist and pulling up.

“I’m starting to understand why you don’t even need an hour with these dates.” He sounds amused. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

She was on her way to a date, but she can’t remember where it was or with who. Every brain cell is currently focused on how to steer this ship over the waterfall without smashing it to smithereens at the bottom.

Ari takes a step back, letting the shirt fall to the ground. She simply hasn’t pictured him so specifically before. At least not this part of him. Her hand skims over his chest; it’s the perfect amount of give.

“You’re…” Her voice trails off. It’s not that his muscles are spectacularly well-defined. He just looks so solid: like a person who could chop large quantities of firewood or help a woman carry a giant stroller up a flight of subway stairs.

Josh gives a little self-conscious shrug. He moves to unbutton her dress again, but she swats his hand away. Easier to keep this focused on the physical if she remains in control of everything on her body. Her hand migrates downward, and in three seconds, he’s in his boxer briefs.

His abs contract as Ari reaches beneath the waistband and…um…

“Wow,” she says softly. “I’ve been casually sitting next to this for months?”

He swallows with some effort. “Your loss.”

And now she really is irreparably stretching the Italian-cotton blend material, but for once, proper garment care doesn’t seem to be on his mind.

The boxers join the pile on the floor. If Josh feels embarrassed or awkward about being the naked one, he doesn’t show it. Under normal circumstances, she’d have no problem dispensing with her dress, but this isn’t exactly normal, is it?

She takes a step back, out of his reach. Without being too graceful or alluring, she rolls down her tights and underwear, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

The dress stays on.

“Bedroom?” he suggests. She can physically feel the word bedroom vibrating in her chest.

“No!” She’s almost surprised by the vehemence of her own response. They can’t do this in his bed, which is probably covered in crisp sheets with the subtle fragrance of expensive laundry detergent.

She looks around for the least romantic alternative. Couch? Too bed-adjacent. Chair? Too comfortable. Table? Her eyes land on something intriguing near the front windows.

Perfect.

It’s impossible to catch feelings on a Bowflex.

“Here,” she says, leading him over to the angled bench and pushing him down.

Josh glances at the five-way hand grips and lat straps. “Are you planning to torture me or something?”

“You should’ve bought the carabiners.” She turns her back to him, letting her calves press against the ripped black vinyl upholstery. Maybe they don’t need to look at each other at all. “Reverse cowgirl?” There’s a whiff of desperation in her voice.

“Ari.” Her name sounds different now when he says it—like things have already been altered on a molecular level. “Turn around? Let’s just…keep it simple.”

Turning around isn’t simple. Looking at each other isn’t simple. Nothing about this is simple. How does he not see that? They’re supposed to be ripping into each other. Releasing three months’ worth of pent-up sexual tension. Not gazing.

“It’s my favorite position,” she says, facing away from him.

“There’s no way that’s true.”

“It is,” she insists. “You’re saying you don’t want to look at my ass?”

“Later.” Even without seeing his expression, the depth of his voice makes her anxiety flare. Why is he promising a later? This is only ever going to be a now. “You’re skipping past some of the good parts.”

Except one person’s good parts can be someone else’s minefield.

A bit of motion draws her attention to the window—a dusting of snow pelting the glass.

“Look,” she says, standing up and walking in front of the north-facing window, possibly out of desperation to change the vibe. “It’s snowing.” She exhales and draws back the curtain and watches thick white clumps stream down from the sky in efficient diagonal lines. It’s like an establishing shot for a holiday episode of Friends.

She doesn’t mean for him to follow her but five seconds later his warm body brushes up behind her, but cautiously, like a zookeeper approaching a skittish animal.