Page 159 of The Storm

What it was like to have nothing between us.

Every small detail.

Every brush of his fingertips.

Every kiss.

He licks his lips and blinks.

“Shower,” he says. “I’ll go find us all something to eat.”

I nod.

He walks out and shuts the door quietly behind him, and I slump against the wall.

Fuck me.

Fuck me.

Fuck. Me.

I smell like him.I smell like his shower gel. My hair smells like his shampoo. I bury my nose in the collar of his borrowed T-shirt and inhale and inhale and inhale the faint scent of oranges.

I open the door and step out of the bathroom, making my way down the hallway toward the light that spills out at the end of it. The hallway opens up to a living area with the kitchen against one wall and the rest of the space taken up by the living room.

Nova has settled in on the couch, clearly at ease, snoring softly, her paws twitching every now and then.

Nick is standing at the island that separates the living room from the kitchen area. He looks over when he hears me approach.

I manage a small smile.

“All yours if you want it,” I say, gesturing toward the bathroom.

His eyes move up and down me, taking in the forest-green sweatpants and the cream T-shirt. I feel every moment of that long look so intensely that he might as well be touching my bare skin.

“Dinner?” he says.

“You don’t have to.”

The look he sends me now burns right through the last of the resistance. “I want to.”

Shaky feet carry me over to him, and I sit down at the island.

“Can I help?”

We work in comfortable silence that’s only broken by him giving me directions on what to do and how to do it, and me silently following orders.

He slides the two large wraps onto plates and adds two glasses of water.

I take the plates, he takes the glasses, and we settle in on the couch on either side of Nova. He flicks the TV on and turns on arandom movie neither of us really pays attention to, and we eat. I groan after the first bite because I can’t help myself, only now realizing how hungry I was.

“So good,” I say through a mouthful, already taking the next bite.

“You can slow down,” he says with a laugh.

I scrunch my nose at him and ignore the suggestion while he laughs again. His eyes linger when I lick the sauce off my fingers, and I try to ignore the fact that my skin feels like it’s on fire.

I don’t know what we’re doing here, but whatever it is, we shouldn’t, and I also can’t put a stop to it.