Page 60 of Courtroom Drama
He props his head up with his hand, elbow pressed to the blanketed cement. “You don’t seeyourself.”
I consciously swallow, attempting to coat my dry throat. “Sure I do.”
He shakes his head. “No. You don’t.” He states his response so factually I have to question whether I’m indeed wrong.
“Then what am I?” I say, my voice a dare.
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re smart. I like the way you think. Likehow you resisted turning on the TV the other night in the presidential suite. If I were a fan, I don’t know if I could have shown such restraint.”
I roll my eyes when he brings up my fandom again. “Yes, clearly I am restrained,” I say, gesturing at the air in reference to our current half-baked situation.
“You constantly surprise me,” he says in response. He pushes the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to just under his elbows, and I take in the ink on his arms again. I think I now know them all on these two plots of land. I feel a bit of pride in that—that I’ve spent enough time in his vicinity to know every forearm tattoo and how each adjusts with his movements.
“You’re thoughtful. Like how you grabbed me a box of cereal that morning I accidentally slept in.”
“I’d do that for anyone,” I say, which is solidly a lie.
He keeps going, more words escaping him than I’d thought possible in one sitting. Who knew all I had to do was get him high and the compliments would spill out of him. “You’re beautiful. There’s that. Even more beautiful than I remember. I didn’t think that was possible.”
I force myself to hold his gaze rather than look down at the cement. I’ve been called beautiful only by two other men in my life, both right before casual sex.
Damon, though, has called me beautiful before. The first was ahead of the homecoming dance freshman year, when he arrived to pick me up, though we were going as singles in a group rather than as couples. It was myShe’s All Thatmoment, complete with a trip on the bottom step. When I regained my balance, his eyes flicked down and then back up over my lavender floor-length sweetheart dress. “You’re beautiful,” he said, with a wistfulness in his voice that made me want to question him.
The other time was right before our first kiss.
Damon dips his head to catch my eyeline. “I was gonna say you’refucking hot, but...” He seems to search for the appropriate end to his sentence, but when he doesn’t find it, he instead lets the unfinished bit hover between us.
My stomach flips. Beautiful, sure. Fine. But never “fucking hot.” His eyes sear me from the insides of my throat to the pit of my stomach.
We both watch my hand rise from the blanket, fingertips landing on his exposed forearm. We follow the trace of my index finger as it examines the tattoos of his forearm one at a time, each having grown in meaning and appeal the more I get to know him again. My fingers flutter over the angel wings to the intricate mandala just above. We watch as the tips of my nails brush the hairs of his arm as they move, like legs sweeping through a field of wildflowers.
“Is that on the list you’ve been keeping about me?” I ask, my voice unreasonably husky as our eyes stay trained on my hand and its movement.
I see him nod in my peripheral. “It’s a hell of a lot longer than just that, but yes.”
I stop to look up at him, fingertips still against his skin. Damon’s face takes on a familiar stoniness. His eyelids having ceased in their blinking. I look to the sky for comfort, only to find Orion has picked up the North Star and is spinning it atop his outstretched index finger like a basketball.
I turn back to Damon to share this news with him only to find him staring at me with what I’m certain is desire. His eyes are soft, filled with that cool that never seems to leave them. But also, I see now, rimmed with longing. It’s been there all along tonight, I realize—a set-in, unwashable stain. A wave of emotion washes from my abdomen to my chest and back down.
I take a quick look to where Cam disappeared to. He’s lying on the ground on the opposite end of the roof, still but peaceful, as if he’s fallen asleep.
Damon cups my chin, drawing my attention back to him. He positions his thumb squarely below my bottom lip, brushing it slowly back and forth. I watch him as he stares at my mouth, the focus of his observation so intense that I reflexively rake my tongue over my bottom lip. He swallows roughly in response. His eyes flick up to mine, and I demand his gaze. Our faces hover so painfully close that, even in the near dark, I can see the finespun lines of his skin and the thick navy-gray rims of his irises.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want. My heart is crackling like cellophane, tearing at the preemptive thought of thisman breaking my heart again but, equally, fracturing at the idea of not leaning in anyway.
Before I can ruminate further, he leans in and kisses me. It’s tender, delicate even. So silky and gentle I wouldn’t think the softness of it possible from someone built like him. I press into him, attempting to indicate with my movement that I don’t want him to be gentle. He responds, driving his tongue against mine, moving my mouth open more fully.
I find myself uninhibited, particularly with Cam just feet away—even if he is seemingly fast asleep. Perhaps it’s the rooftop setting under the stars. Perhaps it’s this night and its echoes of the teenage and college recklessness I never had. Perhaps it’s the gummies. But somewhere in the recesses of myself, I know it’s because of him. Damon does something to me, something I’ve never quite experienced since being with him before.
Before I can think it through, I’m climbing into his lap. Damon responds, sitting up against the stairwell wall and straightening his legs in front of him to allow me in. My knees press into the solid wall behind him as I lean in. He bends his knees, dragging his legs closer, cradling me.
Our eyes race, both contemplating what happens next. The tug-of-war between “should” and “want” wrenches through us both.
Impulsively, I grab each of his cheeks with a thumb and forefinger and pull the skin upward, taut.
“What are you doing?” he asks, though it comes out muffled because of my control of his mouth.
“I just want to see if it’s possible.” I pull the skin of his cheeks higher, and he presses his eyebrows together in question. “If you can smile. If your face works,” I say.
