“Oh, come on. I always adapt, you know.” He turns his back to me and heads into the living room.
I follow him and we sit on the sofa, on opposite ends. I cross my legs, as he stretches his out. His muscles almost burst out of the fabric of his jeans, and I can’t stop thinking about a few hours ago, watching him sweaty and tired, those legs protruding from the shorts of his rugby kit.
“Something wrong?”
“Huh?”
“Were you staring at my thighs?”
“Me?” I cry, my voice high pitched. “No I wasn’t!”
He bursts out laughing, throwing his head back, and my heart explodes in my chest like a firework.
Shit.
I like Ryan O’Connor. I hate him, but I like him. Maybe I like him more than I hate him, or maybe I just hate him enough to like him. My mind still hasn’t worked it out yet, but the problem remains: I seriously like Ryan. So much that it hurts – and I don’t know how to stop liking him.
I lean over to the coffee table and pass him a fork.
“After you,” I tell him.
“Am I the guinea pig?”
“Look, I can cook, okay!”
He takes the fork and plunges it into the cheese. He takes a huge forkful and shoves it into his mouth, and I think I must be dribbling as I watch him lick his lips.
“Mmm…” he says, diving in once again with his fork. “You’re right, you have to eat this right from the dish.”
I smile, and he smiles back.
“What film are we watching, then?” I ask him, my mouth full.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather watch something else.”
“What?” I swallow, trying not to choke on my pasta.
“What’s sitting next to me.”
And he says it all in one breath.
“Oh,” I say, my mouth hanging open dumbly.
“Well, you watched me today for ninety minutes. Now it’s my turn.”
“It’s not really the same thing.”
“You’re right,” he says, lifting his gaze to meet mine, and something inside me sets alight. “This is much better.”
His leg brushes against mine, and I jump as if he’s burned me. His eyes scrutinise me, serious and penetrating, and his thigh stays glued to mine, sending everything around us up in flames – myself included. I hold my breath, trying to suppress my instinct to just jump on him, sit on his muscular legs and run my hands through his hair, pulling him towards me. To taste those seductive lips, to touch him and slide my hands down the body I’ve had the pleasure of admiring, but never really touched. I want to trace his abs with my finger, following their shadows down to his waistband and…
“Christine…” his voice is low, seductive.
Our breathing deepens, each melding in time to the rhythm of the other’s, as everything around us disappears. The pasta, the sofa, the room, the house.
Ryan O’Connor swallows up everything.
He swallows me down, whole.
