Walk of Shame
Page 37
“You forget something?” I ask.
Andrew reaches out one hand, bracing it on the door frame, the other still at his waist, the picture of a pissed-off man.
“You want to know why I texted Hailey?” he asks, leaning forward.
“Um, to ask her out?” I ask, instinctively taking a step back from the anger in his gaze.
“I mean before yesterday.”
I shrug.
“It’s because I wanted to know what sort of fucking flowers you liked. Only she didn’t know what kind you liked, so I texted her for nothing, and then you made me pay for it.”
“I . . . what? I’m confused.”
“Yeah, me too,” he snaps. “How’d you even know that I texted her?”
“She told me,” I say.
“Why?” he says, lifting his other hand so it too is braced on the door frame, almost as though he’s deliberately disallowing me from leaving this apartment or this conversation.
I look away, and he reaches out and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing my gaze back around. “Why, Georgiana? Why would you care if I texted your friend?”
“Because you’ve never texted me!”
“So?”
“So I texted you the other day, and you never texted back.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, his voice a low growl as his thumb runs lightly along my jaw. “I didn’t reply to your one text, which said hi, and you take that to mean I want to date your friend?”
“Well, it sounds a little ridiculous when you put it that way, but—”
“No, it sounds a lot ridiculous,” he says, stepping toward me, forcing me to step back.
His hand lifts. Slides into my hair to cup the back of my head as his other hand reaches behind him to slam my front door.
My heart is pounding in hopeful exhilaration.
“You know why I didn’t reply to your text, Georgiana?” His fingers press against the back of my head, a gentle, insistent pressure.
I shake my head.
“Because when it comes to you, I seem to make a mess of everything. Because saying nothing at all seemed better than saying the wrong thing. And forgive me if I’m wrong here, but the one and only text you sent me wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, am I right?”
I lick my lips nervously. “I may have made a mountain out of a molehill on the whole texting thing.”
His eyebrows lift. “You think?”
“But last night you texted Hailey to ask her out. I saw you,” I say, trying to wriggle away.
His other arm slips around me, his palm settling against my back, holding me still.
“I was pissed,” he says. “I acted rashly.”
I meet his eyes. “Is that a first?”
“Acting rashly? Perhaps. Being annoyed at you? Definitely not.”
“So are you going out with her?” I ask softly.
“I meant to,” he says. “I made reservations. Dressed for it.”
“To punish me.”
He sighs tiredly and rests his forehead against mine. “To move on from you.”
A few minutes ago I was very determined that my sadness wouldn’t kill me, but the happiness I feel right now? That might kill me. I feel like I’m bursting with it.
I lift my hands, settling them against his chest, my eyes locked on the button of his shirt I’ve started fiddling with because I’m also feeling unexpectedly shy. A definite first.
“And have you?” I ask tentatively, not so sure I want to hear the answer.
“Have I what?”
I gather my courage and lift my eyes to find him watching me. “Moved on from me?”
“Funny thing about that,” he says softly. “Seems I found myself canceling on her, and seconds later I was knocking on your door.”
“Probably because you were annoyed with me,” I say, just a tad grumpily.
“Probably,” he replies with a slight smile. Then he adds huskily, “I may have misled you about something.”
“Hmm?” I say, still basking in the warmth of his closeness.
“When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”
I’m anticipating the kiss, so the touch of his lips to mine shouldn’t be a shock, but the way the warm pleasure consumes my entire body, lips to toes, is a bit unexpected. Maybe even a bit scary, given how much I’ve been wanting this moment.
Wanting him to want me.
Andrew tilts his head, nudging my lips open with his, and I sigh in pleasure as he deepens the kiss.
If the kiss on the sidewalk was the culmination of sexual frustration, this feels like the culmination of something more important, even though I’m not sure I have a name for it.
I give myself over to the kiss, lifting my hands to his face, loving the slight scratch of his five o’clock shadow against my palm, the silky waves of his hair between my fingers.
He continues to hold my head still as he explores my mouth, the kiss slow, thorough, and completely him.
His other hand is everywhere, drifting restlessly over my back, butt, hips . . .
He slides his hand up my side, and we both gasp as the heel of his palm brushes the outside of my breast. Since I was planning on staying home and watching TV, I’m not wearing a bra.
Andrew pulls back, gazing down at me. We’re both breathing hard, and he looks as unbalanced as I feel at how quickly we went from simple kiss to blistering want.
He lifts his hands so that my face is framed in both palms. “Georgiana—”
Terrified that he’s about to say something logical that will make all the kissing stop, I go on my toes and press my lips to his.
“Please don’t put some sort of esquire spin on this,” I whisper against his mouth.
He lets out a quiet laugh, pulling back just slightly. “Esquire’s not an adjective.”
“Sure it is,” I say, trailing my lips over his jawline, since it’s all I can reach. “Synonym: stodgy. Definition: prone to overthinking.”
Andrew slides his hands from my face down my shoulders to my hips, where his fingers curl possessively over my butt. “Stodgy, huh?”
I nip his chin. “A little. Sometimes.”
His head dips as he brushes his lips against mine, teasing, refusing to deepen the kiss. “Perhaps. But not all the time.”
Andrew reaches out one hand, bracing it on the door frame, the other still at his waist, the picture of a pissed-off man.
“You want to know why I texted Hailey?” he asks, leaning forward.
“Um, to ask her out?” I ask, instinctively taking a step back from the anger in his gaze.
“I mean before yesterday.”
I shrug.
“It’s because I wanted to know what sort of fucking flowers you liked. Only she didn’t know what kind you liked, so I texted her for nothing, and then you made me pay for it.”
“I . . . what? I’m confused.”
“Yeah, me too,” he snaps. “How’d you even know that I texted her?”
“She told me,” I say.
“Why?” he says, lifting his other hand so it too is braced on the door frame, almost as though he’s deliberately disallowing me from leaving this apartment or this conversation.
I look away, and he reaches out and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing my gaze back around. “Why, Georgiana? Why would you care if I texted your friend?”
“Because you’ve never texted me!”
“So?”
“So I texted you the other day, and you never texted back.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, his voice a low growl as his thumb runs lightly along my jaw. “I didn’t reply to your one text, which said hi, and you take that to mean I want to date your friend?”
“Well, it sounds a little ridiculous when you put it that way, but—”
“No, it sounds a lot ridiculous,” he says, stepping toward me, forcing me to step back.
His hand lifts. Slides into my hair to cup the back of my head as his other hand reaches behind him to slam my front door.
My heart is pounding in hopeful exhilaration.
“You know why I didn’t reply to your text, Georgiana?” His fingers press against the back of my head, a gentle, insistent pressure.
I shake my head.
“Because when it comes to you, I seem to make a mess of everything. Because saying nothing at all seemed better than saying the wrong thing. And forgive me if I’m wrong here, but the one and only text you sent me wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, am I right?”
I lick my lips nervously. “I may have made a mountain out of a molehill on the whole texting thing.”
His eyebrows lift. “You think?”
“But last night you texted Hailey to ask her out. I saw you,” I say, trying to wriggle away.
His other arm slips around me, his palm settling against my back, holding me still.
“I was pissed,” he says. “I acted rashly.”
I meet his eyes. “Is that a first?”
“Acting rashly? Perhaps. Being annoyed at you? Definitely not.”
“So are you going out with her?” I ask softly.
“I meant to,” he says. “I made reservations. Dressed for it.”
“To punish me.”
He sighs tiredly and rests his forehead against mine. “To move on from you.”
A few minutes ago I was very determined that my sadness wouldn’t kill me, but the happiness I feel right now? That might kill me. I feel like I’m bursting with it.
I lift my hands, settling them against his chest, my eyes locked on the button of his shirt I’ve started fiddling with because I’m also feeling unexpectedly shy. A definite first.
“And have you?” I ask tentatively, not so sure I want to hear the answer.
“Have I what?”
I gather my courage and lift my eyes to find him watching me. “Moved on from me?”
“Funny thing about that,” he says softly. “Seems I found myself canceling on her, and seconds later I was knocking on your door.”
“Probably because you were annoyed with me,” I say, just a tad grumpily.
“Probably,” he replies with a slight smile. Then he adds huskily, “I may have misled you about something.”
“Hmm?” I say, still basking in the warmth of his closeness.
“When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”
I’m anticipating the kiss, so the touch of his lips to mine shouldn’t be a shock, but the way the warm pleasure consumes my entire body, lips to toes, is a bit unexpected. Maybe even a bit scary, given how much I’ve been wanting this moment.
Wanting him to want me.
Andrew tilts his head, nudging my lips open with his, and I sigh in pleasure as he deepens the kiss.
If the kiss on the sidewalk was the culmination of sexual frustration, this feels like the culmination of something more important, even though I’m not sure I have a name for it.
I give myself over to the kiss, lifting my hands to his face, loving the slight scratch of his five o’clock shadow against my palm, the silky waves of his hair between my fingers.
He continues to hold my head still as he explores my mouth, the kiss slow, thorough, and completely him.
His other hand is everywhere, drifting restlessly over my back, butt, hips . . .
He slides his hand up my side, and we both gasp as the heel of his palm brushes the outside of my breast. Since I was planning on staying home and watching TV, I’m not wearing a bra.
Andrew pulls back, gazing down at me. We’re both breathing hard, and he looks as unbalanced as I feel at how quickly we went from simple kiss to blistering want.
He lifts his hands so that my face is framed in both palms. “Georgiana—”
Terrified that he’s about to say something logical that will make all the kissing stop, I go on my toes and press my lips to his.
“Please don’t put some sort of esquire spin on this,” I whisper against his mouth.
He lets out a quiet laugh, pulling back just slightly. “Esquire’s not an adjective.”
“Sure it is,” I say, trailing my lips over his jawline, since it’s all I can reach. “Synonym: stodgy. Definition: prone to overthinking.”
Andrew slides his hands from my face down my shoulders to my hips, where his fingers curl possessively over my butt. “Stodgy, huh?”
I nip his chin. “A little. Sometimes.”
His head dips as he brushes his lips against mine, teasing, refusing to deepen the kiss. “Perhaps. But not all the time.”
