It should feel like too much, but it doesn’t.
I shift slightly against him, letting my body press closer than necessary.
I’m keen for things to progress. We’re both grownups. I think he’s hot as hell, and it seems to be mutual.
Instead of making a move, he drops one of his hands, threading his fingers between mine. His grip is tight, secure.
He’s been such a gentleman since I got here. I can tell he’s interested in me—that he wants more, too—but he hasn’t come close to pushing it. I’m not sure if I’m happy or insulted by his complete self-restraint. His ability to make me feel comfortable and not pressured.
In the meantime, I’m over here increasingly wanting to rip both of our clothes off and jump on him.
It’s like we’re magnets, but the kind that are drawn to each other. Hard.
And I never want it to stop.
CHAPTER 19
IVY
Back at the apartment, Soren eases the jacket off my shoulders as if he’s peeling foil from something warm and fragile.
I sink onto the deep couch, ankle crossed over knee, fingers fumbling for the laces of my boots. A sigh of exhaustion escapes me before I can stop it, fatigue suddenly hitting me after a day of adventure, full of wings and beer and whiskey.
He’s on one knee before I finish the exhale.
“What are you?—”
“It’s okay,” he interrupts. “I’m helping you. You’re tired.”
“I can take my own shoes off.”
His palms slide under my heel. The boot yields with a soft pop, and cool air rushes over my sock-damp skin. “Just because youcando something, doesn’t mean youshould.”
He sets the boot aside, matches it with the second. Then he stays there, kneeling between my knees, his fingertips resting lightly on my shins.
My skin tingles at his touch.
Streetlight slants through half-open blinds and stripes his cheekbones in gold.
I can smell yeast and hops still clinging to both of us—barrel-aged stout, distant laughter—and underneath it, the cedar wood and smoke notes that seem baked into his skin. It makes my tongue press to the roof of my mouth.
He stands first, offering me a hand.
When I take it, he doesn’t pull. Just folds our fingers together like he’s locking carabiners.
In the kitchen, he opens the fridge. Light pools across his tattooed forearms. “Do you want a glass of wine? Water? What can I get for you?”
“A sparkling water would be great,” I say, proud of myself for not doing what I’d normally do and keep the drinking part of the night going well past what’s good for me.
His tendons flex when he tears the pull-tab on a lime seltzer, bubbles whispering against aluminum. He pours into a tall glass, slow enough nothing spills, then nudges the glass across quartz until condensation gathers against my knuckles.
I take a sip and swallow once, twice. The fizz stings sweet at the back of my throat.
He sets his own empty hand on the counter edge, leaned in so close his belt buckle ticks against the drawer pull.
And then he’s next to me, standing a fraction too close to be casual. When he reaches for me, it isn’t dramatic—two fingers under my chin, tilting my face up so our breaths trade places. His eyes are storm-grey with flecks of silver that dart to my mouth.
His hand moves to the back of my neck. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, his lips touching the shell of my ear.