already turned around and walked deeper into her room while I’m still standing in the hall with my hands in my pockets and my mouth wide open. Talk about a total loser.
There’s a part of my brain that’s telling me to walk away, that any girl who makes this kind of 180-degree turn obviously has issues I am not equipped to deal with. And yet, even as I’m telling myself to get the hell out of here, I take a step into her small studio apartment. Then another and another, until I’m standing in the center of the room. Which is only about five feet from the main door, but still.
“So what do you want to drink?” she asks. “I’ve got Dr Pepper, hot chocolate, coffee, and water.”
I glance around, take in the single bed that doubles as a couch, the small bookshelf loaded with books, the tiny kitchenette. There’s not much else to see. No photos. No posters. Nothing but a few books to give me a clue about who Ophelia really is.
“I’ll take a Dr Pepper.”
“Good choice.” She walks over to the fridge and pulls out two of the old-fashioned glass bottles, then uses an opener to pop the caps off them.
“Did you really ask me in just for a drink?” I wonder as she hands me the soda.
She pauses, her hand still on the bottle, right next to mine. “Did you really come in just to get a drink?”
“What do you think?” I ask, watching her face carefully as I put the bottle on the counter next to me without taking a sip.
Ophelia follows the movement with her eyes. “I think you don’t like Dr Pepper.”
“You think right.” I’ve never been able to stand the stuff.
“So why’d you take it, then?”
I put my hands on her waist, pull her closer, until her lower body is pressed against mine. “Why do you think I took it?” I can’t help it. There’s a part of me that likes playing this cat-and-mouse game with her.
“I don’t know.” She keeps her eyes steady on mine. “You’re certainly full of questionstonight.”
“I am. How come you’re not full of answers?”
“Because answers are always harder than questions. Don’t you know that?”
I think of the million or so questions I have about April. About my mom. About everything that went down during that time in my life. A million questions and almost no answers. Except the really bad ones. “I guess I do.”
She takes a long sip from her bottle, and I can’t help but watch the way her mouth moves against the rim, the way her throat works as she swallows. I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose this time, but Jesus, she’s making me hard.
I shift, try to adjust myself so my hard-on isn’t so fucking obvious. But it’s nearly impossible when she’s drinking half the damn bottle in one sip and all I can focus on are her shiny pink lips and what it would feel like to have them wrapped around my cock.
Finally—finally—she puts the damn drink down next to mine, then tilts her face up so she’s looking me in the eyes. “Still, I think I’ve got a pretty good answer for what you’re doing here,” she tells me.
“Oh, yeah?” Who is this girl and what has she done with Ophelia?
I know I should be concerned, but her face is only inches from mine now, and if I bend my head, I’ll be able to kiss her like I’ve wanted to from the first moment I saw her. I start to do just that, to press my lips to hers, but her sudden change of tune holds me back, tells me to take it slow. Something is up with her, and I don’t know what it is. The knowledge bothers me more than it should.
I mean, all the signs are there.
Her full lips are tilted up in a seductive smile.
Her sweet body is curved into mine.
Even her hands have taken up residence on my arms, her fingers curling around my biceps as if to hold me to her.
Yeah, she’s giving me all the right signals, and I should totally be taking advantage of them, stripping her down so that I can see and touch and kiss every inch of her beautiful, beautiful body.
Still, I’m
There’s a part of my brain that’s telling me to walk away, that any girl who makes this kind of 180-degree turn obviously has issues I am not equipped to deal with. And yet, even as I’m telling myself to get the hell out of here, I take a step into her small studio apartment. Then another and another, until I’m standing in the center of the room. Which is only about five feet from the main door, but still.
“So what do you want to drink?” she asks. “I’ve got Dr Pepper, hot chocolate, coffee, and water.”
I glance around, take in the single bed that doubles as a couch, the small bookshelf loaded with books, the tiny kitchenette. There’s not much else to see. No photos. No posters. Nothing but a few books to give me a clue about who Ophelia really is.
“I’ll take a Dr Pepper.”
“Good choice.” She walks over to the fridge and pulls out two of the old-fashioned glass bottles, then uses an opener to pop the caps off them.
“Did you really ask me in just for a drink?” I wonder as she hands me the soda.
She pauses, her hand still on the bottle, right next to mine. “Did you really come in just to get a drink?”
“What do you think?” I ask, watching her face carefully as I put the bottle on the counter next to me without taking a sip.
Ophelia follows the movement with her eyes. “I think you don’t like Dr Pepper.”
“You think right.” I’ve never been able to stand the stuff.
“So why’d you take it, then?”
I put my hands on her waist, pull her closer, until her lower body is pressed against mine. “Why do you think I took it?” I can’t help it. There’s a part of me that likes playing this cat-and-mouse game with her.
“I don’t know.” She keeps her eyes steady on mine. “You’re certainly full of questionstonight.”
“I am. How come you’re not full of answers?”
“Because answers are always harder than questions. Don’t you know that?”
I think of the million or so questions I have about April. About my mom. About everything that went down during that time in my life. A million questions and almost no answers. Except the really bad ones. “I guess I do.”
She takes a long sip from her bottle, and I can’t help but watch the way her mouth moves against the rim, the way her throat works as she swallows. I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose this time, but Jesus, she’s making me hard.
I shift, try to adjust myself so my hard-on isn’t so fucking obvious. But it’s nearly impossible when she’s drinking half the damn bottle in one sip and all I can focus on are her shiny pink lips and what it would feel like to have them wrapped around my cock.
Finally—finally—she puts the damn drink down next to mine, then tilts her face up so she’s looking me in the eyes. “Still, I think I’ve got a pretty good answer for what you’re doing here,” she tells me.
“Oh, yeah?” Who is this girl and what has she done with Ophelia?
I know I should be concerned, but her face is only inches from mine now, and if I bend my head, I’ll be able to kiss her like I’ve wanted to from the first moment I saw her. I start to do just that, to press my lips to hers, but her sudden change of tune holds me back, tells me to take it slow. Something is up with her, and I don’t know what it is. The knowledge bothers me more than it should.
I mean, all the signs are there.
Her full lips are tilted up in a seductive smile.
Her sweet body is curved into mine.
Even her hands have taken up residence on my arms, her fingers curling around my biceps as if to hold me to her.
Yeah, she’s giving me all the right signals, and I should totally be taking advantage of them, stripping her down so that I can see and touch and kiss every inch of her beautiful, beautiful body.
Still, I’m
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