Though his hesitance to get physical feels like a genuine effort on his part to debunk his Casanova reputation, every part of me craves that connection. The anticipation is both agonizing and delicious—knowing that no amount of vocalizing my frustration will grant me any headway. I’ve spent hours memorizing him—his expressions, the tiny mole on his lash line, the masculine bow of his top lip, the timbre of his voice. He has no imperfections, or if he does, I’m blind to them. I’m far too smitten with him already, even if he’s draining the patience out of me. A few times, I’ve caught myself in the midst of daydreams during lectures when I should have been taking notes. I both love and loathe the power he currently has over me due to such vivid daydreams. My only solace is that my infatuation at times seems reciprocal, even if his restraint is driving me bat shit. Part of my fascination lies in the fact that he’s so hard to read.
Gazing over at him now, I trail my fingers along his pecs, and he covers my hand, flattening my palm to his chest.
“Three little things?” He asks.
“Yeah,” I dip my chin studying his prominent Adam’s apple, tempted to run my tongue along it. “Little things you love.”
“I love running.”
I yawn dramatically.
“Okay, okay, you want creative?”
“By all means, Snorli.”
“Cute.”
“I am, yes,” I agree while managing to keep a straight face.
“Very,” his eyes rake over me suggestively.
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m thinking. Are you going to let me do that, or do you want a bullshit answer?”
“I guess I can wait.”
He shakes his head. “I love waking up—”
“Waking up?” I frown.
“I wasn’t finished. I love waking up in my own bed.”
“This is an issue for you? And if so, how many other beds are we talking about?”
He rolls his eyes. “Give it a rest with that shit.”
“Fine.” I relax my shoulders, hating the gnaw in my gut as I sink into his pillow. “I can’t say it’s not comfortable. Thread count ain’t too shabby, either.”
He grins. “Smartass.”
“Next thing.”
He lifts his confiscated hoodie a mere inch above the hem of the boxer shorts he lent me to sleep in, and his eyes follow the path of his fingers along my skin.
“Okay,” he speaks up. “I’ve got one. This may seem weird, but I love biting into a pretzel and then taking a sip of Coke.”
“Seriously? You spent a full minute coming up with that?”
“You ever tried it?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well you should, the salt reacts to the carbonated water, and it’s like a party in your mouth.”
“Fascinating.”
“Not impressed? We are talking about little things, right?”
“Right. Give me a third, Welch. And try to really put yourself out there.”
“Fine.” He pauses his fingers. “My third is kind of a big thing. The biggest thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The sky.”
“The…sky? Okay, I’m going to need you to elaborate, please.”
“It’s constantly there, but it’s archaic, turbulent, whimsical, vast, and everchanging, differentiating the days even if I’m looking out of the same window. The moon is my favorite companion. It’s why I love to run and why I usually take my runs before dawn. I love racing the moon into another day.”
I lift to straddle him and lean over as he pushes my hair away from my face, gripping it in his fist at the nape of my neck. Hovering above him, I lean down and press a gentle kiss to his lips.
“Racing the moon into another day? That’s waxing pretty poetic, sir. Consider me intrigued. I had no idea you got that deep. I mean,” I wrinkle my nose, “you had a lot to make up for with the coke to pretzels ratio and the admission that you’re a bed-hopping ex-whore.”
He rolls his eyes. “Glad I could appease you.”
“Wouldn’t go that far.”
“And you have no idea how deep I can get because you never stop talking.” He turns us so I’m on my back, and I forget his insult as he grins down at me, his effect overruling any witty quip I could have come back with.
The word infatuation comes to mind as I drink him in because it’s what I feel. When I’m with Eli, it’s too much and not enough all at once.