Seven Days in June(51)

Eva had been consciously avoiding Shane’s touch all day. If he so much as brushed up against her, she might explode.

“I’m at rock bottom, too,” said Shane. “I’ve never had sober sex.”

Eva gasped. “That long? Why?”

Shane didn’t know how to answer this. He’d had a lot of sex, with too many women, in increasingly depraved ways, a lot of it good, most of it a blur—and it was a relief to stop. Normal, healthy people didn’t use sex as a post-vodka chaser.

“Never got around to it,” he said.

“I don’t miss it,” Eva said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Honestly, I’m practically a virgin again. It’d probably hurt.”

“I’m so backed up, it’d be over in two seconds.”

“Good thing we’re not having sex.”

“I, for one, am relieved,” said Shane, with a wolfish smile.

Eva giggled into her palm, despite herself. “Why is it still so easy to talk to you?”

Shane gazed at her until the glint in his eye faded a bit. “Always was. It’s just who we are.”

“Do you remember everything?” she whispered. “About us?”

It took him a while to answer. “It’s funny. The past decade is a blur, but I remember every detail of that week.”

“I was hoping I’d romanticized it over the years. That we weren’t real.” Her words sounded delicate, breakable.

There was the quietly hypnotic, faint sound of a piano, and the incense swirled softly. And then Eva felt a familiar pull. Just like when they were seventeen, there was no space between them. There was an overwhelming need to get closer, always.

Unthinking, Eva slipped her hand into his. Shane squeezed it and then brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a lingering kiss into her palm. She gasped, electricity tearing through her. It was the slightest touch, but she felt it everywhere.

Eva had been imprisoned in pain for so long, she’d forgotten how good feeling good was. Her entire body roused. Suddenly, she was aware of everything—her skin, her cells, the bones under her skin. Heart fluttering, core throbbing.

Touch-starved.

Shane watched her reaction with lidded eyes. Then he lightly ran his lips along the inside of her wrist. She let out the tiniest whimper, her back arching. It was electric.

Breathless and embarrassed by her reaction, she sat up, burying her face in her hands. No. They were in a public space. Behind an unlocked door. She was a mother! And Shane was a Bold-Faced Name. Were they really fated to get caught dry-humping at an art-world pop-up? The welcome sign said NO TOUCHING! If they got caught, Book Twitter would implode. Audre would fling herself into the East River.

But then she opened her eyes. There was Shane, gazing up at her, looking for all the world like the reckless, irresistible boy he’d once been—but now with experience and grown-man gravitas and a rugged North African surfing scar and the most fuckable crinkles around his eyes—and nothing mattered.

There was no hell she wouldn’t risk for this man. And he knew it.

“Come here,” he said.

Eva straddled him, her hair falling in his face. Shane ran his hands up the backs of her thighs and over her ass, and then, not gently, he gripped her hips and pulled her down against him. Their lips were inches away from each other.

“Twenty questions,” he whispered.

“Go.”

“Why’d you really come to see me?”

“To ask for the favor.”

“Liar.” Shane tossed her over onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. Instinctively, her legs drew up, wrapping around his waist. “Why’d you come?”

“For you.” Her hips stuttered against his, desperate for friction. “Wanted you.”

“You got me,” he rasped, leaving hot, sucking kisses down her throat. “Your turn.”

Eva trembled beneath him, his mouth scrambling her brain. She couldn’t ask Shane the obvious questions (Where’d you go? Why’d you leave? How could you?). Over the years, she’d trained herself not to care about these answers. Besides, this moment wasn’t about him; it was about her. So she went for something easier.

“Do you ever think of me?”

Lightly, he ran his tongue along her neck, up to her ear, nibbling on her lobe. “I never learned how to stop.”

“Oh,” she said. And then shakily added, “Your turn.”

“So did you? Romanticize us?” asked Shane, eyes catching hers. “Or were we real?”

“We were real,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Then?” He ground himself against her and she moaned.

“Y-yes,” she gasped. “Then. And now.”

Abruptly, Shane freed her wrists and cradled her face. She slid her hands up his back, gripping his shoulders. Slowly, he lowered his face toward hers, then stopped. He dipped down, then paused. He’d been waiting a lifetime to have her like this, buzzing for him, craving him, desperate—and he wanted to savor it.

But she let out an impatient groan, digging her nails into his shoulders, and Shane caved. He crashed his mouth into hers, drawing her into a luscious, searing kiss. The delicious shock of it was enough to make Eva freeze, but then she melted into him, lost in the heat of his mouth, the slide of his tongue, the teasing nip of his teeth, until she was unable to form a coherent thought beyond yes and want and ShaneShaneShane. He kept at it, kissing her senseless. It went backward in intensity, slowing down to a soft, searing smolder—almost too hot to take.