When I arrived at my doorstep, Christian was already there, pacing back and forth by the front stairs. The air around him crackled with dark energy.
He turned to face me, surprising me by grabbing my hand and pressing it against his heart. “Feel it, Ari.”
The look on his face said more than words ever could. There was expectation there, mixed with hope, longing, and something else. An odd fragility that hadn’t been there before. It reminded me of that time, decades ago, when Nicky and I had almost gotten caught by Ruslana.
I sank my blood-red fingernails into the fabric of his shirt. “Happy to see me?”
“I’ll be happier when I see all of you.”
We took the three flights of stairs two at a time. My adrenaline was through the roof. When I opened my door, I told him I was getting a glass of water and asked if he wanted one.
“Sure?” He gave me a funny, is-this-how-we’re-going-to-play-this look. I pointed toward my room and told him to make himself comfortable. When I was certain he was gone, I chugged two pints of water, then stuck my head in the freezer to try and bring my temperature down.
When I went to my room, I caught him studying my bookshelf, his back turned to me. I’d hired a carpenter years before to convert one of my bedroom walls into a library. It was extravagant and entirely unjustified, what with this apartment being a rental and all, but it made me feel more at home than any other piece of furniture I owned. Christian ran a finger along the spines of the books in a manner I found strangely erotic.
“The prized Atonement,” he drawled, knowing I was there even though I hadn’t made a sound. “First edition, hardcover.”
“Don’t even think about it.” I pushed off the doorframe, ambling toward him. I pried the book from his hands, caressing it lovingly.
He turned to look at me, a smirk playing on his face. “Think about what?”
“Borrowing it.”
“Why not?” he whispered. “It’s just words on paper.”
“What a preposterous thing to say. And death is just a long nap in a drawer.” I pressed the book deeper between the two books engulfing it. “If you’re so desperate to read it, get a library card.”
He leaned his shoulder against my shelves, scrutinizing me for a reaction. “Why this book specifically?”
“Because.”
“I’ll rephrase. What event do you associate with this specific book that makes it impossible to let go of? I find it hard to believe a different copy of Atonement, one I could order from Amazon right now, would have the same emotional impact.”
I thought of Nicky’s arctic blues, twinkling as he told me he would do this for me. Defy our parents. Reenact that scene.
Of Nicky pressing me against my shelves, kissing me.
Lying beneath the pounding sun, counting the constellation of freckles on my nose and shoulders.
Nicky. Nicky. Nicky.
A sweet ache spread inside my belly.
Christian shook his head. “Never mind. Too personal. I get it.”
“It’s not—”
He took the glass of water I’d forgotten I was holding and placed it carefully on one of the shelves behind my head. He laced his fingers through mine and pinned my arms on either side of me, above my head, just like in Atonement. His fingers tightened their grip, his mouth coming down to the base of my throat, his lips brushing softly against the sensitive skin.
For a second, I actually wondered if Christian was Nicky. Why else would he choose to do that? But no. It couldn’t be. Nicky was dead. Besides, maybe Christian had watched the movie and thought it would be hot to reenact it.
I mewed, dropping my head back and closing my eyes.
“Arya, you lovely, lying creature, you. How long I’ve waited to do this to you.”
His mouth dragged up my neck, his white teeth grazing my chin, before he dipped his tongue into my mouth, prying my lips open. My mouth fell open in an O shape, and I writhed, my back arching, my body pressed against him, as I relished the dull ache of desire.
“Beautiful . . . sweet . . . lovely Arya.” Each word was a kiss. His fingers let go of mine, and he scooped me up by the backs of my thighs, lacing my legs around his waist, our kisses deep, sweltering, filling the bottom of my belly with silky warmth. Most of my weight was supported by the bookshelves.
“How unbearably perfect you are,” he murmured into my mouth. Tendrils of my hair, wild as weeds, fell over our eyes. The compliments were not said with sarcasm or contempt. They were soft whispers, curling around my neck, my wrists, like fine jewels.