My eyes got big and hopeful. “Is cuddling an option?”
He answered by pulling me into his arms. I tucked in as close as I dared, sinking into his warmth, and letting the scent of his skin—sweat, sex, the fading notes of his cologne, and something I recognized as purely him—wash over me.
“Though I think I might want a cigarette,” he murmured, after a minute or two.
I partially de-nestled. “I’ll go.”
“I’m perfectly capable of getting them myself.”
“Well, I know that. But I want to. Where are they?”
“Jacket pocket.”
I kissed the corner of his mouth, scrambled out of bed, and went looking. As love-quests went it was minor—I didn’t meet any fantastical beasts or get my head chopped off—but I liked being able to do something for him. It seemed…domestic. The sort of small task a partner might do. I even remembered to grab a saucer for the ash.
Wow, I was the best.
“Can I light it for you?” I asked, on my triumphant return.
One of his eyebrows twitched upward. “I think you might be overestimating the power of your hand job. It was very nice, but I’m still functional.”
“I just thought it would be romantic.” I grinned at him in what I hoped was an appealing fashion. “You know, like Bogart and Bacall, Davis and Henreid, Grant and Scott. I mean, unless you think I’ll set your face on fire or something?”
“I don’t think you’ll set my face on fire.” He took the packet of cigarettes I’d brought him, drew one out of the foil, and put it to his lips.
And, obviously, smoking was bad and everyone knew it was bad…but he looked so sexy. Half naked, stretched out in bed, still languid with post-orgasmic sensuality: this perfect embodiment of old Hollywood glamour, except nobody had to pretend they were straight.
I fumbled a match out of the box. “I should light one for me too, and then we could put the tips together and do it that way.”
“I’m not letting you smoke.”
“Um, is it up to you?”
“Since they’re my cigarettes, yes.” But then he smiled unexpectedly. “Besides, you’re terrible at it, Arden. And I’d rather you didn’t take up an unhealthy habit.”
“It’s your unhealthy habit.”
“Indeed. And there are many other aspects of my life I would prefer you didn’t repeat.”
I blinked at him. “Really? You don’t think I should aspire to be rich, successful, brilliant, and gorgeous?”
“I think you should be exactly who you are. Including all the ways you are not like me.”
I couldn’t quite untangle what was a compliment and what wasn’t. But I was getting distracted anyway. I didn’t actually want to smoke—I was just getting bratty because I’d been told I couldn’t. And it was extra-nonsensical because Caspian not wanting me to get cancer and die was hardly the height of oppression. So I stopped arguing and lit his cigarette for him. And I didn’t make a total hash of it. Yay.
Caspian was pretty casual about the whole thing, but I was strangely touched. Maybe because I was thinking of Oxford again. His smoking had been this private ritual then and he’d seemed like an impossible fantasy of a man, as beyond me as the stars and the golden towers. Except the truth of him was so much more.
Making sure the match was out, I dropped the box on the bedside cabinet and snugged up next to Caspian. Watched the curls of smoke drifting from between his lips. Was it wrong that I found it hot? Of course, I would have preferred him to have a non-harmful hobby, but I don’t think he did it enough for it to be very damaging.
“Are you going to stay?” I said, instead.
“If you’d like to me to.”
“Hmm, let me think about it. Yes.”
He laughed, but quickly turned serious again. “I can’t promise to…to be the best sleeping companion.”
“I’ll, um, try not to flip out this time.”
