Page 122 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

Kat

I knockon the door and try not to feel like I’m cracking apart, or like I’m desperate, or like I’m desperate and cracking apart and suddenly co-dependent on my boyfriend of—let me check my calendar—approximately three days.

I should be meditating instead of at Silas’s house. I should be talking to a friend instead of at Silas’s house, or re-watching Cowboy Bebop for the millionth time, or doing yoga, or going for a run, or one of the other thousand Ways To Deal With Anxiety that I have a literal list of on my phone.

But when he opens the door and sees me, he smiles so hard I almost forget to be nervous.

“You didn’t text,” he says when he kisses me before the door’s even shut.

“Sorry,” I say, and I can feel my heartbeat in my throat so instead of saying anything else I push forward into him, kiss him harder. When it ends I’ve got one hand around the back of his neck and I’m breathing too hard. So is he. Good, this is why I came.

“You okay?” he asks, and there’s a frown in those pretty blue eyes, his thumb sliding along my cheekbone. I told him earlier about the meeting and dinner, so he’s got a good reason for asking.

“Yeah. Of course,” I say, and make myself take a step back, though I don’t stop touching him. “I just… wanted to see you.”

I don’t say I feel like the work half of my life is spinning out of control. I don’t say the stress of not knowing is going to undo me. I don’t even say please make me feel better. I’m here because I’m selfish. I know it’s not fair to Silas.

“Here I am,” he says, softly. “Ta-da.”

“Right. Hi.” I try to smile and I’m not sure how it goes, and God, how have I already made this so awkward? I’ve seen him every day for weeks. He put me on his kitchen table and ate me out two nights ago, and now I can barely look him in the eye?

We step back, and I toe my shoes off. I suddenly don’t know what to do so I walk into the kitchen, stand in the middle, stop. Silas walks in, rests both hands on the countertop behind himself and gives me a long, assessing look. I look away.

“Kat,” Silas says, slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” I lie. He’s not buying it. “I…” Have no idea how to finish that sentence, for one, without blushing myself to death.

“You showed up at my house at ten o’clock at night to say hi?” he asks, his voice gone low and teasing, his head cocked a little to one side. “There’s a word for this, you know. Two, actually.”

I sigh and close my eyes.

“Shut up,” I say, step into his space, and kiss him. He’s warm and solid, the front of his shirt damp in spots because I think he was doing dishes when I got here, and I give him a long, slow, open-mouthed kiss, let my hands roam a little. I can feel the ridge of that scar under my fingertips, and for some reason, it makes me push against him a little harder.

“You didn’t come here to talk, you mean.” Both hands on my back, under the jacket I’m still wearing, up over my ribcage.

“No,” I say, braver when his hands are on me and my eyes are closed. “So quit it.”

“Bossy,” he says, but he says it into my mouth as he pulls me against him. “Get this off.”

I tug my jacket off my shoulders without breaking the kiss, toss it onto the counter without looking too hard, push both my hands into his hair and bring his mouth down to mine. I let the kiss turn feral, almost savage; I know I’m shoving him into the counter, that the edge is probably in his back, that I’m grinding my hips against him and pinning him there, but it feels so good I don’t care.

He feels good. His mouth feels good. Having control again feels good, so I curl my fingers through his hair and slide one hand to the back of his neck, my thumb on the hinge of his jaw.

He pulls back for a moment, blue eyes gone dark, cheeks flushed, lips red, and I steady myself with a hand on the counter next to his waist while he looks at me, letting his gaze drift down my body until suddenly, he grins and I can feel my face go red.

“Fuck, Kat,” he says, and he’s still grinning but his voice is all low and gravelly as he puts one thumb right on the hard point of my nipple, swirls the cotton fabric of my dress around it, because I showed up to his house in a dress made of t-shirt material with no bra on. That’s why I needed a jacket. In case I got pulled over or had to get gas or something.

“Tell me this is why you came,” he rumbles, his thumb still moving, the rasp of the fabric against my nipple so delicious that I’m having a little trouble thinking.

“Of course,” I say. I’m trying not to make a weird noise.

“Just this?” he asks, and has the nerve to pinch my nipple gently.

I nod.

“What else?”

I don’t know, do some sex things, I think, but I can’t say that out loud. I can’t say anything out loud because I am absolutely, completely sure it’ll sound ridiculous. Like do some sex things.