“By the way,” I call after him, “I bought a new creamer. It’s cinnamon. You’ll hate it!”

Liam doesn’t answer and doesn’t pause on his way out. I don’t see him until the following night, and that . . .

That’s when it happens.

Thirteen

Present

The weirdest part is how quickly everything changes.

One minute, I’m in the middle of cleaning up the kitchen, wondering whether the smoothie blender is dishwasher safe, thinking about my ongoing pining and my upcoming move, about how much I’ll miss this—coming home after work, finding twelve forks and a colander in the sink, wondering how many of them are Liam’s.

The next, he is standing behind me. Liam Harding is standing right behind me, on purpose, and pressing me into the counter. As though he wants to be here, close, touching me, as much as I want him to be. I am too stupefied to do anything about the water running in the kitchen, but he leans forward to turn it off, and all of a sudden the room is silent.

His hand closes around my hip, and I cannot think. I cannot comprehend what is happening. I’m breathing. He’s breathing. We’re breathing together—same rhythm, same air—and for a moment I just feel it. This. It’s nice. It’s good. It’s what I’ve been wanting.

Then he shifts my hair behind my shoulder; uncovers the base of my throat. I feel something—teeth, maybe?—grazing at my skin.

“Liam?” I half moan.

“It’s me.” He is kissing me. There. “Is this okay?”

I’m nodding—Yes—to what, I don’t know. Yes, you’re Liam. Yes, this is okay. Yes, I’m about to melt to the floor.

“You smell so good, Mara.”

Thank God for the kitchen sink to hold on to, because my knees are about to give out. Thank God for Liam’s hands, too. Except that one is sliding under my shirt. I’ve never thought of myself as dainty, but it somehow manages to cover my entire torso, and his thumb . . .

It’s brushing against the underside of my breast, and—

Oh.

He licks the pulse in the dip of my throat, and I’m mortified to hear myself whimper.

“You are so soft.” His breath is hot in my ear, and I shiver. Exactly once. “I think I imagined you wouldn’t be. You’re always running, working out. You always look so strong, but . . .”

He lets go of me for a fraction of a second, and every single cell in my body revolts at once.

No.

Wait.

Stay.

But he’s only adjusting me. His hand presses on my lower back, angling me just so: slightly bent forward, like . . . God, like he’s about to—

He’s back on me immediately. Begins to undo the zipper of my jeans, the catch of it like a drum in the silence. Air rushes out of my lungs in a sharp exhale.

“Okay?” he asks again, soft, deafening, and it is okay. Even if my jeans are sliding down my thighs, and I have never, ever felt less in control. I think we’re about to have sex, but sex is not like this. Sex is awkwardly pulling off clothes, and negotiating positions, and hours of foreplay peppered with Are you sure you shouldn’t be on top? and Wait, that’s my elbow. Sex is not going from zero to a million this way. Not for me. It’s not gripping the edge of the sink to stop myself from moaning, or needing to grind against something—anything—or feeling my knees weaken to jelly.