I can’t stop myself; I reach a hand up to his face, needing to touch him, to show him what this means to me. I run my thumb over the smooth skin of his cheek to his beard and keep it there, feeling the roughness of his beard against my palm. His eyes flutter closed as I touch him, and when I don’t remove my hand, he steps closer, slipping his arms around my waist and drawing my body to his.
Yep. I’m done for.
He gazes down at me, his eyes black and penetrating. His mouth opens, then closes, before he finally asks, “Can I kiss you?”
I nod breathlessly. Fuck, if he doesn’t kiss me I’m going to die.
But he does; he lowers his mouth to mine in a slow, sweet kiss that sends a shower of sparks through me. I circle my arms around his neck and tilt my head, melting into the warmth and softness of his lips. I’ve never kissed a guy with a beard before and there’s the most delicious tickle against my cheek. Something about that sends fire shooting down through my center, makes need bloom hot between my thighs.
Jesus Christ. I’m trying to keep it together, but it’s a losing battle. I let out a little moan against his lips and I feel him smile, tightening his arms around me. When his tongue dips into my mouth, seeking mine, my knees buckle and he has to hold me against him.
“Get a room!” a passer-by calls and we both laugh, drawing apart. But not too far; he rests his forehead against mine, gazing at me with dark eyes, his breath warm and sweet on my lips.
“I thought you just wanted to be friends,” he murmurs, and I giggle.
We stare at each other for a few moments, both of us grinning, figuring out our next move. Quite frankly, I just want to get him into bed, but…
I glance down at my stack of books at his feet with a heavy sigh. I hear the words from the clerk at Strand again—I’ve always dreamed of being a writer but never gotten around to it—and, with all my strength, I pull away. When I see the light dim in Michael’s eyes, I take a deep breath, letting the freezing air fill my lungs.
“Michael, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Does this have something to do with all the kissing?”
“Yes. I should have told you this the other day, but I… I like you too. A lot.”
The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “Yeah?”
I nod. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ve been trying to fight it.”
“Why? Because of the stuff we just talked about?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. I look over at the Christmas tree, at the picture-perfect scene in front of me. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to do that anymore—keep hoping for something that would never happen. So I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t feeling anything. But—” I cut myself off with a hollow laugh, thinking of Geoff’s words. “I was kidding myself.”
I let my gaze slide back to him, and before I know what I’m doing I step up onto my toes and brush my lips over his, stealing a kiss. When I pull away he’s gazing at me affectionately, and he laces his fingers through mine.
“The thing is,” I say, looking down at our joined hands, “these articles I’m writing—this column…” I glance back up at him, feeling a little stab at the patience on his face. “This is the best opportunity I’ve had in a long time. I really want this. And because of the topic—”
“I know. You don’t have to explain.” He gives me a soft smile, squeezing my hand. “You’re writing about being single. You’ll probably have to be single to write it.”
I shrug. “Yeah. I mean, they never actually said that, but… I don’t see them giving it to me if I’m not.”
“I get it.” He lets out a heavy breath and it’s a white mist between us. “Alex… I’ll do what you want to do. I like you a lot, but I don’t want to get in the way of your career.”
I groan, tugging on his hand. “Saying that makes me want you more.”
“I want you, too.” A half-smile lifts his mouth, then drops away. “But if we want to be together, we need to do this right. I don’t want you to regret ruining this opportunity for me. You’ll know in a few weeks if you’ve got the column, why don’t we wait and see what happens?”
I swallow hard, looking down at the ice-rink below. A few weeks, knowing that he wants me as much as I want him, knowing what those lips taste like now… “I’m not sure I can,” I mutter.
When I glance back at him, he’s giving me a woeful little smile, and he releases my hand. “I think you should take some time to think about what you want.”
I nod, trying to ignore the feeling of despair that’s settled over me.
We gaze at each other for another moment, then Michael picks up the bag of books and we wander out of the Plaza, finding a cab home.
In the cab we don’t talk. I turn his words over in my mind: take some time to think about what you want. I know he means well, but that’s not going to help me in the slightest. Because it’s not that I don’t know what I want. I do, and it’s crystal clear.
I really want to write for Bliss Edition and, if I get the chance, to become one of their featured writers. I want to be paid to write, to make something of myself, to show my parents it’s not ridiculous—and I want to prove to myself that I can do it.
But I
