I could have pointed out that he nearly kissed me. But I just apologized meekly—though probably not entirely convincingly—and waited for him to continue.
“Do you have plans now that you’ve finished your degree?”
“Um, you’ve met me, right?”
“I assume that’s a no. In which case, why don’t you stay in London? In one of my apartments.”
For a negotiated prearranged wossname, that seemed kind of intense. “You want me to live with you?”
“No, in one of my apartments.”
And that wasn’t much better. “Like your…your…mistress?”
“No.” He sighed. “Like someone who is staying in the apartment of someone he knows.”
“But I should pay you rent or something, right?”
“Arden, believe me, you could not afford the rent. I’m simply offering you somewhere to stay so you don’t have to worry about accommodation or living expenses while you apply for jobs or internships and decide what you want to do with your life. Something I expect you would find difficult from Kinlochbervie.”
I smiled at him helplessly, warmed, charmed, as touched as I had been the first time he recalled some minor detail about my life. “You remembered.”
“You knew I would.”
I swallowed. What he was offering seemed…I had no idea. How were you supposed to think about something like that? And it wasn’t exactly like I could phone a friend. Nik would probably tell me I was nuts for giving the guy the time of day after he’d had me peremptorily chauffeured out of London.
But I liked him and I wanted him. And he’d come for me when I’d needed someone. Needed him. Looked after me when he could have, well, not done that.
“And this is the plan?” I asked. “I live in your place and you…uh…we…uh…and after a set time we stop?”
He nodded. “I’m aware it’s probably not…not what is commonly done.”
I could have responded with the you think he deserved, but he looked so uncertain I didn’t have the heart.
“But,” he went on, “I’m afraid it’s what I can offer. I’ve tried to make it practically appealing for you. And I’d be very willing to provide additional financial support, although I suspect that would offend you. I assure you, however, it would be compensation for inconvenience rather than compensation for…services.”
There were way too many things wrong with this. But, for some reason, what struck me just then was how seriously he was underselling himself. “Look, if I do this, it’ll be because of you, not because of what you can do for me.”
He glanced away, blushing a little, hand tightening on my wrist. “I believe you. But I…I’m afraid I have some particularities—some limitations, perhaps—upon which I cannot compromise.”
“Well.” I twisted my fingers back to brush against his. “I’m pretty sure that’s what being human is like.”
“You know,” he said softly, “you could sell this story.”
“Oh don’t start that again. First off, nobody would believe me. Second off, I’d look like a complete dick.”
He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of my wrist. And while I was busy dying and melting and catching fire and stuff, he murmured, “Truth has no place in journalism. You really don’t have any notion how the world works, do you?”
“Your world, where people only have sex in exchange for stuff and constantly think of selling shit to the papers, no.” It sounded good in my head, but unfortunately my voice came out all wobbly. Because I could feel the texture of his lips and the warmth of his breath against the very softest places of my skin.
“I considered trying to intimidate you with a nonsensical NDA. But I could never have held you to it.”
“I’m not a— Oh God that’s…” His tongue. Tracing the vein. “I’m n-not an idiot. You couldn’t…like sue me for breach of sexual contract.”
“No.” His eyes met mine over my captured hand. “I have to trust you.”
Desire was a powerful thing on its own terms, but mixed with tenderness it was almost overwhelming. What an extraordinary and unexpected gift: trust from a man who clearly didn’t offer it often. “You’re safe with me, Caspian. I promise.”
He laughed. “I’m not safe. Not even a little bit. But thank you.”
