Erasing Faith(56)

“You’re right. You’re not a princess — you’re Little Red. And I’m the Big Bad Wolf.”

“Still a fairy tale,” I contested.

“Not if you read the original version,” he countered.

“True enough.”

“Are you going to let me in, or were you planning to leave me hanging out here like an * all night?”

“Hmm.” I pretended to think about it for a moment.

“Red,” he growled.

I laughed, slid the window shut, and ran —yes, ran — to the front door, pulling it wide so he could come inside.

He stepped over the threshold and opened his mouth to say something, but I threw out a finger and pressed it to his lips, silencing him before he could make a sound.

“Margot,” I mouthed, gesturing toward the bedroom door only feet away, behind which my roommate was sleeping soundly.

Wes’ mouth curled into a smile beneath my fingertip, but he nodded and allowed me to tug him from the doorway without another word.

When we reached my bedroom, there was an awkward moment when I realized there was nowhere for us to sit except my rumpled bed.

You already married the guy, my subconscious reminded me. I’m pretty sure you can sit on a bed with him for a few minutes without spontaneously combusting.

We settled in with a few feet of distance between us. I sat with my back to the headboard and my knees bent up to my chest; he sprawled out on the end of the mattress like a king, owning the space.

I swallowed hard when he leaned back against the blankets and his t-shirt rode up, revealing a slice of taut, tanned abdominal muscles. I could happily sit here drooling at him all night, but I had a feeling that wasn’t my best look — I was already contending with bed-head and weird middle-of-the-night eye gunk.

“So,” I said abruptly, after a few minutes had passed in silence. “You wanted to tell me something…”

He turned his head in my direction and I saw his eyes were remote, his mind far away.

“Is this the part where I comment on how big certain parts of your anatomy are, Mr. Wolf?” I asked, reverting to our Little Red Riding Hood joke to bring him back to me.

His eyebrows went up and a corner of his mouth lifted sardonically. “Depends which parts we’re talking about, Red.”

I felt my face flame. “Do you have to make everything dirty?”

“I don’t have to.” He grinned. “But I like watching that blush make your face match your name.”

I glared at him.

“Okay, okay,” he said, sitting up and sliding closer to me on the bed. “I didn’t come here to tease you.”

“Why did you come?” I asked, my voice snarky.

He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a tiny red drawstring bag. I felt my breath catch in my throat when he passed it to me. “Here,” he said softly, pressing it into my hand.

Full of curiosity, I opened the small bag and watched, stunned, as the gorgeous handmade black bracelet I’d spent hours admiring at the festival earlier tumbled into the palm of my hand. With one finger, I traced the delicate beading and intricate horsehair weaving. It was even more beautiful now than I’d remembered it.

I lifted watery eyes to glance at Wes. “How’d you know?”

He stared at me with an intent look. “I know you, Red.”

My stomach clenched as I stared back at him, feeling the air around us begin to crackle with everything that short sentence implied — and everything else we’d still left unsaid. With his words wrapped warm around me like an invisible blanket, I suddenly stopped worrying about my mussed hair and my messy bedroom. I didn’t care that it was the middle of the night and nothing was perfect. This wasn’t a fairytale — it was my life. And it was about time I started living it.

I uncurled my knees and inched closer to Wes on the bed, until our sides were pressed tight together — like we were one, singular being.

Any amount of space between us felt too far.

“Put it on for me?” I whispered, handing him the jewelry and holding out my left arm. I watched as his hand lifted to take the woven bracelet, entranced as his fingers hooked the tiny clasp against the pounding pulse point in my naked wrist. Wes’ hands were gentle, barely even skimming my flesh as he turned my hand back over. With a single fingertip, he began to trace length of my fingers one-by-one in an achingly slow exploration.

Thumb.

Index.

Middle.

I tried not to squirm, unwilling to reveal how much he affected me. How the simple act of touching my hand was enough to set every atom in my body on fire.

When Wes reached my ring finger, his progression halted. Instead of moving on, he stroked the thin cord that resided there so delicately, so reverently, it nearly reduced me to tears. He made a kind of choked sound I couldn’t put words to, and when I looked up to meet his eyes, I saw plainly in his gaze the confusion, lust, conflict, and love that were warring for space in his head. I easily recognized his struggle for control — inside, I was battling those same feelings.

Neither of us spoke as the silence dragged on and the air grew thick with tension. I opened my mouth to say something, then shut it again; Wes swallowed hard and seemed to be gathering his thoughts, but none of them escaped his tight-pressed lips.

The night was made for spilling secrets. But, sometimes, there aren’t any words.