inconsequential gesture, but there’s something in the tiny little act of thoughtfulness that pokes holes in my resolution to keep him at arm’s length.
I harden my heart as I dry my arms. Easier said than done. Because he’s watching me, smiling.
And then he sings again. Only it’s a song with my name in it.
Hair like flame, I turn to fire
Sky-blue eyes, you’re my bad liar
Can’t hide secrets you try to keep
Truth seems to make you weep, Ally... Ally...
My smile is heavy. As if resin has been poured over my face, casting me in a mask that will be an approximation of how I really look for ever.
‘Is that about me?’
‘Nah.’ He reaches for a second towel and rubs it through his hair. ‘It’s for another girl I know. Alisandre.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re the bad liar.’
He laughs. ‘I don’t think so.’
I wrap the towel around me, tucking it under my arms. The song echoes through me. ‘What do you think I’m lying about?’
‘It’s lyrical,’ he says with a shrug, but then he looks at me curiously, his expression watchful. ‘I don’t think you’re lying. I think you’re...closed off.’
‘Closed off?’ I arch my brows and think my expression must show how unimpressed I am. ‘Seriously? I have been more intimate with you than...than anyone in a really long time.’
‘That. Right there. That’s what you do. You catch yourself before you can say anything about yourself.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Okay. Why do you love that painting at the MoMA so much?’
My cheeks flush pink. ‘I told you...’
‘You “just do”.’ He imitates my voice and rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching into a smile. ‘See? Vague, vague, vague.’
‘Well, no... I just...’ I huff an indignant breath. ‘It’s kind of embarrassing.’
‘Yeah?’
He crosses his arms over his naked chest and my eyes drop lower. Man, it’s so much easier when we’re having sex. There are no barriers then.
I grimace at the secret I’m about to share. Something I’ve never told anyone.
‘When I was in middle school I really hated the way I looked. You know—bright white skin, orange hair...’
‘It’s not orange,’ he murmurs.
‘It felt like it. Everyone else was blonde and tanned and I was all...me.’ I shrug. ‘My mom wouldn’t let me dye my hair, even though I desperately wanted highlights.’ I sigh dramatically. ‘And then I saw that painting. And...and she was so beautiful and mysterious and she kind of looked like me. Don’t you think?’
‘No one looks like you,’ he says, wrapping his arms around me.
His voice is thick and so full of sincerity that it reaches right into my heart and curls around it.
‘You are completely unique.’
The atmosphere between us is a net, tangling me in its midst. I stare at him, and everything is quiet but the beating of my heart and the gushing of the super-charged blood through my veins.
It’s too much.
I smile awkwardly and step away from him, moving out of the bathroom, my heart still racing, my body aching for him.
‘So...’ He follows me, all casual nonchalance because he knows it’s what I need. ‘What’d you cook?’
‘Ah!’ Safer ground. ‘Lasagne.’
‘My favourite.’
I’m rewarded with a grin. A grin that curls my toes.
Apparently not safer ground.
I move on to business, seeking something that will suck the sparkle out of the air around us.
The lasagne is burned on top.
It almost does the trick.
* * *
His kisses run like raindrops down my skin. They are soft and sweet and I shift a little.
‘Was I asleep?’ I stretch in the bed, lifting a hand to capture his cheek. My heart twists.
‘Yeah. Did I wake you?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I blink. My mind is groggy. ‘What time is it?’
‘Four.’
‘Four a.m.?’
I frown. Shit. I planned to go after we’d eaten. Why am I still here?
‘Why are you awake?’
He lifts his mouth higher, finding my breast and kissing the underside before reaching a nipple and wrapping his lips around it. It is bliss, but too short. He moves higher, pressing his lips against a pulse point at the base of my throat, and then he samples my lips.
But it’s a kiss that lacks our usual desperation and urgency. I am tired and he is probing me. Curiosity is at the fore of this exploration.
I sigh softly.
‘I never sleep after a concert.’
‘Really?’ I lift a hand up and stroke his hair. ‘Why not?’
He shrugs. ‘Too wired.’
‘Let me teach you a trick.’
‘What is it?’
‘Lie down.’
He does, on his back, beside me. I rearrange myself so that my head is on his chest, listening to his heart, and search for his hand, lacing our fingers together and resting them on his chest.
‘What do you usually do instead?’
‘Of this?’
‘No. Instead of sleeping.’
‘Oh.’ His fingers wander over my hair distractedly. ‘I go out with my crew.’
‘Your crew?’
‘Yeah. Like technical crew. Not gangsta.’
‘But
