A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(27)
I turn, arms full of books, and smile big. He must not have to work today, because he’s back in a T-shirt and jeans, and with a leather jacket and that lip ring, he looks like every bad-boy fantasy I’ve ever had. I want to kiss him, and I want to feel his lip ring against my clit, and I want him to be the one I break my strange little virgin curse with. This bad boy with eyes like winter trees who’d rather talk about death than friendship.
I hop down from the ladder, set the books on the table, and bounce over to him. “Hi!”
My cheerfulness cracks his guarded expression the tiniest bit; there’s a small tip to his lips that wasn’t there before.
“Hi,” he says. Almost shyly. “I shouldn’t be here, but I just—I knew Auden wasn’t going to be home yet, and I thought you might be hungry.” He holds up a plastic storage container of what looks like homemade soup, and then he looks incredibly pained. “This is stupid. I’m sorry, I should go.”
“No, wait! Stop!” I move over to him and grab at the soup container like it’s the last bottle of wine in a hotel room at a library conference. I clutch it to my chest and beam up at him.
He does stop, he stays right where I’ve ordered him, but he doesn’t smile back down at me. Instead he stares at me like I’m a vase he broke. A pearl he chipped.
And when he stares, his eyes in the full sunlight are so rich and so dark that I can feel myself drowning in them.
“Why would you think this is stupid?” I ask softly, still cradling the soup to my chest. “It’s actually very kind.”
He takes a long time to answer. “It’s stupid because it’s a bad idea.”
“Us being friends?”
“Yes.” He closes his eyes for a minute, opens them. “I should stay away from you.”
That’s the most nonsensical thing I’ve ever heard. “Why?” I say, taking his hand and leading him to the kitchen so I can have my soup. “Why does it matter?”
He heaves a beleaguered sigh. “It just does.”
When we get to the kitchen, I put the soup in a pan to warm it up and get him a beer from the fridge. He shucks off his jacket and leans against the counter while he drinks it, watching me bustle around the kitchen with a kind of wary fascination. I chatter at him the whole time, asking him about his library and what hours he works and what music he likes and what other fantasy novels he’s read and does he want water? Tea? More beer?
He answers in a slightly bewildered way, but by the time we’re sitting down with our soup, I’ve almost got him into something like a real conversation. As I pull words from him like teeth, I think of the boy I married in the thorn chapel, the boy who crackled with mischief and life.
How did he turn into this man of frost and doubt? And why?
I’m about to ask him this exact question—yes, I know it’s blunt, but I can’t help it—when there’s the sound of the side door in the kitchen opening, and Becket blows in with the wind and a happy Sir James Frazer, who barks once at Saint, then decides to lick his hand instead.
“Saint,” Becket says in pleased surprise. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
Saint looks a little panicked. “I should go.”
“At least finish your soup,” I playfully plead. I feel like a teenage girl scheming to get just five more minutes with her crush. “Don’t rush off with an empty stomach.”
I don’t need to look at Becket to know that he’s probably staring at me with piqued interest, but like any good priest, he stays silent.
Saint lets out a breath. Picks up his spoon. “Okay. I guess.”
I watch him eat, my own hunger tearing at me from the inside. The careful press and touch of his lips against the spoon is killing me. I think I’m just going to have to tell him the truth. Tell him that I’m a virgin and a sex monster and I want him to fuck me. He can even fuck me vanilla if kink isn’t his thing. But I want to have sex with him and I want to do it as soon as possible.
Funny how I spent years not being ready, and now within the space of a day, I’m so ready that I’m crawling out of my skin.
When I look away, Becket is studying me, and I flush, because he’s studying me like he knows what I’ve been thinking. Like he can see me struggling not to squirm in my seat, can see me wondering how I can convince Saint that I’d be a lot of fun to sleep with, despite the whole virginity thing.
But before he can say anything about it, or I can say anything to draw attention away from how obvious it must be that I want Saint, I hear voices in the hallway outside—one voice low and polished, the other one sweetly musical. Auden and Delphine. Hours ahead of schedule.
Saint gets to his feet just as they come into the kitchen looking like a magazine ad for beautiful people in love. Delphine is all blond hair and riotous, wool-covered curves in her cigarette pants and bright red coat, and Auden’s in this denim shirt and sports jacket outfit that should look like a mess, but on his perfect frame and with his hair doing its perfect hair thing, it looks amazing, of course. Their hands are linked, and Delphine is mid-laugh at something Auden has said to her, and he’s looking down at her like he’s never seen anything prettier or better than Delphine Dansey—because, let’s face it, he probably hasn’t and two million Instagram followers would agree.