Talking Dirty(4)

The air shifts with his momentum and I pick up the distinct scent of that crisp, clean smell I’ve already come to associate with Link. I spin the chair lazily with my foot until I’m facing him.

He props his hip against the side of the desk, watching me. His shirt is a deep navy color, causing his eyes to look more blue than grey. The color also looks good against his skin tone. I’m finding myself growing more attracted to him the longer I know him.

The thought is unsettling.

“You ready?” he asks. “I came by to give you a ride home.”

Shit. That’s really…nice. But not exactly the ride I had been anticipating all day. I shrug my shoulders and pluck my purse from under the desk.

He stands the same time I do, bringing us toe to toe. I’d love to lean in and test his boundaries. Maybe even test my own. Visions of him, me, and the desk flash through my head. The chair. The floor. The wall—

No, not the wall.

Link’s brows draw together in question, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he brings his hand up, the movement measured. He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, pinching it between his fingers, and running his thumb over the lock as if feeling the texture. I feel every tiny gesture against the side of my neck.

My blood boils with desire. I’m not sure I have ever burned this badly for a man before. It’s hard to swallow. It’s impossible to move. My heart pounds rapidly inside the concave of my chest. All from his simple touch.

It’s a strange sensation to feel my heart beat in this way, when it’s not from fear.

No. It is from fear. But the kind of fear people chase. The kind the body craves. The kind that makes brains shut down and instinct take over.

“You have beautiful hair,” he husks. I open my mouth to thank him when he continues. “It reminds me of Livie’s. Her hair was exactly like this.”

He leans in, pressing his nose into the crook of my neck and inhales deeply. I shiver as he releases the breath into my hair. “You smell different though. She always had a fruity scent. You smell like vanilla. Women often smell like food. Why is that?”

“Probably because we want to be eaten,” I say, my voice steady though my body feels unstable and shaky.

He leans back, his eyes meeting mine. I swear just days ago they were devoid of life. Now they flicker with an intensity that makes me wonder if I reflect or if I’m still empty.

“I’ll devour you,” he murmurs. “Every sweet inch. Just ask.”

The distant sounds of clanking weights and laughter are the only reasons I don’t take him up on the offer this very second. “Soon,” I say, parroting his words from earlier. “Take me home.”



***



Other than Joe, and the couple of times my parents dropped in for an impromptu visit, I have never had anyone in my apartment. Asking Link in is like opening myself up to him. It takes a lot of effort to even get the words out.

“Do you…” I suck in a breath, holding it in my puffed cheeks, before releasing it slowly. “I want you to come up with me.”

Link hesitates, his fingers curling around the steering wheel. His gaze is searing. I can see his internal struggle etched in the unsure expression he wears so well. And I can understand it. I want him to say no. I want him to say yes. I’m not sure I know what I want.

My hand slides over the door handle. I’m ready to get the hell out. I think I changed my mind. This is too personal. It’s too much. I can’t do this.

He opens his door, making the decision for me.

We make our way to my door and my hands are shaking by the time I place the key into the lock. It has nothing to do with Link or what I’m inviting him in for. It’s that this is my home. My personal space. I haven’t allowed someone this close in a long, long time.

I step inside first and walk directly into the living room, dropping my purse on the chair. I clear my throat softly and turn in time to see Link shut the door behind him.

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask. Because I do. I want a lot of drinks. Something strong with a severe burn.

“I’m good.” His eyes drop away, sweeping the room. My apartment isn’t much to look at. It’s small and sparse. I’m not a knick-knacky kind of person. Or too many pillows on the couch kind of person, either. The less I have, the less there is to clean.

Link moves toward the wall displaying a few of my paintings from high school. I haven’t really painted anything wall-worthy since then. His gaze moves over them, one by one, with rapt perusal.

“Did you do these?” He glances at me over his shoulder and I nod. “Joe mentioned you were an artist,” he continues. “These are good.”