There’s only one way to find out if I’m imagining things. No, this is not the moment for conducting an experiment. Not when my status in this country hangs in the balance. But I’m not a man who wastes an opening like this. Not when it comes to Britta.
Ignoring the sound of a car door slamming nearby, I take a step forward, lean down, and wind an arm around the back of Britta’s waist, slowly hauling her up against me, listening to her gusty intake of breath, watching the way her head falls back. And I savor the sight of her rosy cheeks, the glazed quality of her eyes while I brush our lips together. “Say the word, and I’ll stay, sweetheart. We can pretend we’re still studying for this interview. Take pictures together and pretend we’re only interested in each other’s lives so we can answer some questions. Even though we both know that’s bullshit. We just like being together.”
“As friends,” she whispers, pushing higher on her toes, arching against me.
“Friends?” I drop my forearm lower, so it becomes a seat for her tight ass, and I lift her straight off the ground. “Tell me that’s not the bullshit part.”
She’s on the verge of cracking. I can see it.
She interlocks our damp lips very slowly, cautiously, barely suppressing a moan. Then, motherfucker, her thighs open slightly, allowing just my growing bulge to make it beneath her skirt, between the V of her thighs. It thickens dramatically against her panties, and we groan into a hard pressing of mouths, inhaling and exhaling each other’s oxygen. My God, we’re not going to make this interview, are we? I’m going to drive us to a rest stop and ride her pussy in the bed of my truck, aren’t I? I’m reckless and horny and throbbing, enough to make public sex feel like the only option. And that’s what it becomes when she cinches her hips up and back one time, and my free hand starts to reach beneath her skirt to grip that ass — A door slams again, and Britta gasps, twisting in my arms until I set her down.
She backs away from me a step, then another, smoothing her skirt and hair with unsteady hands. Simultaneously, we both glance toward the interruption and find a man walking toward the building, a briefcase in his hand. I’m not sure, but I think there might also be a touch of smugness in his expression.
“We should go in,” Britta says. “We’re going to be late.”
“Tell me to stay in Bridgeport,” I demand, feeling kind of wild. Off my game. Not cautious at all, the way I would normally be with Britta. I should rein myself in and live to fight for her another day, but I’m so close to a breakthrough with us, I push too hard. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll even pretend we’re just friends while I’m nine deep, ringing your bell.”
Her cheeks pinken like she’s been slapped, even if there’s unmistakable arousal in the depths of her eyes. “No, I definitely think you should go.”
Why can’t life have a do-over button?
Like why?
“Then I will,” I say, taking her hand and guiding her toward the entrance to the building. “But you should know I’m going to miss you, too, Britta. Every day I have to go without seeing your eyes is going to be a slow death.”
Her eyes soften briefly, but she doesn’t respond. Her mouth remains in a flat line the whole way through security, and my desire to rewind the afternoon turns more severe—and more futile. A few minutes later, we’ve made it through the metal detector, and we’ve been directed to the waiting area where we slow to a stop, brought up short by the sight of no fewer than three dozen couples. All here to prove they have a legitimate marriage.
How many of them— us—will actually succeed?
Britta’s hand finds mine, and several bolts loosen in my chest, because I can tell she reaches for me unconsciously. For comfort. Not for show. We check in and find two seats next to each other, her side pressed up against mine, my arm draped across her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” I say against her temple.
“I know. Me too,” she whispers back.
I bite my tongue to keep from asking again if she wants me to stay. I will. In a heartbeat. Doesn’t she realize I’m dying for a chance to prove myself to her? Can’t she feel it?
Then again, maybe it’s for the best if I do go to Edmonton for the summer. Maybe I’m too close, such a constant that I’m crowding her. If I give her some breathing room, maybe she’ll take the time to think. To consider me for real.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield?”
We trade a steadying look, then stand, holding hands as we’re led down a corridor toward an office. We’re let inside.