The Hating Game(53)

Josh watches ER and yawns, not at all suspecting I’m trying to estimate how big his rib cage is like a meat-eating predator.

It’s possible our size mismatch has added a friction to our interactions during our working hours. I’ve always tried to make myself stronger in the only way I can: my mind and my mouth. I think he’s converted me. I think I’m into muscles now. I’ve started to breathe a little hard, and he looks at me.

“What’s with the weird eyes? Relax.”

“I was thinking how big you are.”

I look at our joined hands. He carefully strokes the length of my palm with his thumb. When we look at each other again, his eyes are a little darker.

“I’ll fit you just right.”

Goose bumps scatter my skin. I press my thighs together and accidentally make a little pony-snort. I’m sexy as hell. I can’t resist; I look over my shoulder at his bedroom. It’s so close it would take maybe five big strides to be pushed backward down onto his mattress. His tongue could be on my skin in under thirty seconds.

“If you’re going to fit me so well, show me.”

“I will.”

Our palms are slick. The back of my neck feels hot under my hair. I need to be kissed again. This time, I’m going to slide my tongue against his until he groans. Until he presses something hard against me. Until he takes me into his bedroom and takes off his clothes.

The end credits of history’s longest episode of ER begin to roll. My heart is threatening to pop like a balloon.

He mutes the TV ominously and turns his head until we’re playing the Staring Game. I watch his eyes tip into black, breathless for whatever is about to happen. I can feel a pulse point in all the sensitive parts of my body. Between my legs is heavy and warm. I look at his mouth. He looks at mine. Then he looks at our joined hands.

“What happens now?”

He slants me a look. The next word out of his mouth is like the lash of a whip. “Strip.”

I flinch and he laughs to himself and turns the TV off. “I’m kidding. Come on, I’ll walk you down to your car.”

I am getting dangerously high off his smiles. This is my third one now? I’m stuffing them in my pockets. I’m cramming them into my mouth.

“But . . .” My voice is plaintive. “I thought . . .”

His eyebrows pinch together in a fake display of incomprehension.

“You know . . .”

“It’s rather hurtful to only be wanted for my body. I didn’t even get the date beforehand.” He looks down at our hands again.

“From what I can see, you’ve got a fabulous set of bones. What else should I want you for?” I start holding and squeezing some of his arm joints. It’s the worst seduction routine imaginable, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His elbow is too big to fit in my hand. My dress helpfully slips down a little when I reach for him, and his eyes trail down to the revealed cleavage.

When we make eye contact again, I realize that I’ve said the wrong thing.

He swiftly conceals it by frowning. “We’re not doing this tonight.”

I nearly snap back but as I watch his eyelids close and he takes a deep breath, I realize how badly I don’t want this evening to end. “If I ask you a question about yourself, will you answer?”

“Will you do the same?” He’s regaining composure, like I am.

“Sure.” Everything we do is tit for tat.

“Okay.” He opens his eyes and for a moment I can’t think of anything to ask that won’t be revealing too much of myself in the process.

What do you really think of me? Is this all some elaborate plan to mess me up? How badly hurt will I be?

I try to sound light. “Let’s make it a game, like everything else we do. It’s easier. Truth or Dare.”

“Truth. Because you’re dying for me to say dare.”

“What are the pencil codes in your planner? Is it for HR?”

He scowls. “What’s the dare?”

His scent is fogging spicily around me. The plush, warm couch conspires to tip me closer to his lap.

“You even need to ask?”

He stands up, and stands me up too. My hands curl into the waistband of his jeans and I feel nothing but firm male against the backs of my knuckles. My mouth is nearly watering.

“We can’t start this tonight.” He takes my fingers out of his jeans.

“Why not?” I think I’m begging.

“I’m going to need a little more time.”

“It’s only ten thirty.” I follow him to the front door.

“You’ve told me we’ll only do this once. I’m going to need a long time.” I feel a fluttery pinch between my legs.

“How long?”

“A long time. Days. Probably longer.”

My knees knock together. His eyes crinkle.

“Let’s call in sick tomorrow.” I am infatigable in my quest to get his clothes off. He looks at the ceiling and swallows hard.

“Like I’m going to waste my one big chance on a generic Monday night.”

“It won’t be a waste.”

“How can I explain it? When we were kids, Patrick would always eat his Easter egg straightaway. I could make mine last until my birthday.”

“When’s your birthday?”