Page 15 of The Replay

I do. For a long while, I tried to forget. When that didn't work, I learned to push the thoughts away. Floating leaves on a stream or whatever mindfulness technique I could remember in the moment. Another item for the list of things I don't want him to know.

I give him my most aloof look. "I don't need to cast my eyes down to know your hand is covering enough and you're not fully exposed."

"You know a single hand isn't enough to cover everything."

I pretend to scorn at the idea. "Are you telling me you're getting hard, Dominic?"

"I think you want to look and make sure, Mariana."

He challenges me with narrow eyes. I hold his gaze for a second, two, then make my face show disdain. It's the only way I allow myself a single look— one he'll see, and I choose not to hide. Only so that he knows I'm not the kind to cower anymore.

I lock eyes with him again as if the view of his large hand, with long, thick fingers, wide palm, and protruding veins didn't affect me. As if the way he holdsit over himself doesn't tell me he may be getting affected after all. Like my heart doesn't immediately go into a gallop.

Fake it till you make it, they say.

I turn around. "Cover yourself, Dom."

I cross my arms and close my eyes. Memories flood my mind in a way I'll never admit to him. They trip my lungs, with the way banter used to lead us to bed, and mindblowing sex I've never experienced with anyone else.

"You think of it often, too," he adds. "I'll let you look properly if you ask nicely."

This time, he hides his teasing in a fake grumpy tone.

"Never!" I exclaim.

"I'm not shy," he insists in the same tone. "This is your opportunity to refresh your memories, if you want. You won't get another chance."

"I don't want another chance!"

Funny, that I had to work so hard to pretend nonchalance, only to have him teasing me about it anyway. But if this kind of teasing won't take us back to sharing a bed, the very least it can do is bring some levity to the moment. Better than everything else I was feeling, at least.

"Are you sure, Miss Sinclair? You used to call it so pretty. So good to you."

I bite my lip not to smile. "Give me a break. What's taking you so long?"

"All I had to do was give you a look and we'd get creative in a library study room."

"Stop that!" I aim for annoyance, but laughter escapes me.

"Don't do that. Don't laugh."

His voice comes devoid of the humor and irritation that sung in it just a few seconds ago. It pours ice on my insides, until I feel nothing. My heart goes on standby, waiting to figure out what happened before it clicks onto the next feeling.

I turn and look him up and down. He's wearing the towel again. His hands hold it in place, firm on his hips. He rolls his shoulders and stares down at me.

"Then don't joke around," I say.

"You know it's in my nature," he retorts.

"But I don't get to laugh?"

"We'll manage better if we don't remember how good it used to be."

"He says after bringing up all those memories up himself." I arch an eyebrow.

He scowls. "You weren't meant to enjoy it."

"We aren't meant to feel anything."