I said nothing, trying to decide. He brushed his thumb over my nipple. It reverberated through me. Softening resistance. An ache between my thighs.
He did it again.
“Okay,” I whispered, belatedly. I do want this. I always have. But it’s hard not to be mixed up when people tell you that you’re the hot girl on campus, yet your experience is that men who seem to like you at best, don’t care, and at worst, want to hurt you. Like that boy who kissed me at the party, or the one at the dance who pinched my thigh when I didn’t let him grope me. Bashir is his own category.
Or, they turn me down flat, like Kenton did. Like Lorcan did that night in Scotland.
When they do say yes, they lie about their motives. Lorcan, especially.
So how foolish is it that I still want to feel this?
I can’t stop bracing for the backlash, though. Nothing good has ever come from wanting this. Not for me.
Lorcan kept lazily touching me. Teasing my nipples, running his thumb over my breast. Neither advancing nor pressing me for anything more. He didn’t seem to mind that I only entwined my fingers with those of his free hand. Toyed with strands of his hair.
We’re supposed to be packing up the house. Preparing to leave. Instead, we stayed in bed, listening to the rain until the clouds passed and the sun came out.
* * *
We stayed the next day, too, doing nothing in particular. Reading. Cooking. Minor chores. My pack remained on the floor beneath his bed, empty.
That night, we slept as usual. Like a couple of abandoned kittens curled together for warmth. Early in the morning, Lorcan picked up where we had left off the day before. He slowly hiked up the hem of my nightdress, stroking my thighs, my hips, carefully avoiding the sharp jut of my hipbone as he moved up to my stomach. When I stiffened, he waited until I relaxed again. Neither of us spoke.
Instead of continuing up to my breasts, he moved downward, south of my navel to the tops of my thighs, and back up to play at the waistband of my shorts. Nothing like modern panties. Covari made, given to me by Sas when I had nothing, made of a blend of spidersilk and linen that stretches just enough to fit comfortably snug to the body. A different kind of tension sets in; a low thrum in my core. Dampness between my legs.
Lorcan kissed that spot beneath my ear. At the same moment, he slips his hand inside my underwear. It worked. Instead of giving in to panic, I gasped and tilted my hips to press against his palm.
“Fuck,” he muttered against my neck. There’s nothing tentative about the way he touches me. A slick glide of rough fingers through my swollen folds. I exhaled in a low moan. Lorcan’s cock twitched against my ass. He’s been careful not to press against me, trying to conceal his erections. At first, I thought he didn’t have them. Then he wasn’t quite as careful, and I attributed them to ordinary male bodily functions. Awkward every time, until now. He ground against my bottom and stroked my center. Crooked his fingers to hit a place inside me, hard enough to make me see stars. I made a choked sound and went stiff, rocking into his hand.
Before it completely subsided, he withdrew. I lay there, bewildered and breathing hard.
“Next time, leave these off,” he murmured against my cheek, tracing the outline of my undershorts. Then, Lorcan rolled away and out of bed.
It took me a long time to gather myself and go downstairs. I found him in the kitchen—where else?—making breakfast.
“Morning.”
Oh, didn’t he look pleased with himself. I couldn’t exactly blame him. Clever man, figuring out how to get around my hang-up so quickly. Probably spent all night thinking about it, which is flattering, in a way.
“Morning, yourself. How can I help?”
“You can’t.” He kissed my head. “Make yourself useless. Rest while you can.”
We took our breakfast out onto the patio one last time. Lorcan did laundry while I washed the dishes. It’s the last day of our sweet domesticity. I’ll miss this cottage. Tenáho, too. He might think it’s boring here, but I loved every minute of my stay. (Almost.)
I found a nook in Lorcan’s loft with a peg for hanging clothes, covered by a curtain. While he was outside, I hung the white dress with embroidery I’d worn to his party. I won’t be coming back to wear it again, but I like the idea of making a small claim to his space.
My satellite phone, now recharged with an energy stick, buzzed. Raina.
Uh, we have a situation.
I texted a question mark back to her.
Raina: Hallie’s father is pissed. He wants her and Laila back. We’ve been trying to deal with it so as not to bother you while you’re resting, but the situation has reached a boiling point. I’ll forward you the emails.
Wonderful.
Me: If they don’t want to go, I won’t make them.
