Page 69 of Drowning Erin

I wonder if he has any idea that he sounds like a boyfriend right now. A good boyfriend. I don’t point it out. He’d find the revelation horrifying.

“We can’t be having sex the whole time,” I warn.

“Erin,” he says, sounding exasperated, “I’m capable of controlling myself when I have to.”

I snort. “I guess I haven’t witnessed that yet.”

“What do you think I was doing,” he counters, “for the two months before I slept with you?”

* * *

I arrive at his place expecting him to undress me immediately, but he doesn’t.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, grabbing a plate.

He’s wearing my favorite T-shirt, the one that brings out the gold in his skin and makes his eyes look Photoshopped. I instantly regret the prior claims I made about sex, and us not having it.

“I didn’t really mean we couldn’t have any sex,” I volunteer, and he just laughs.

I walk toward him, and he turns to me sternly, wielding the tongs like a weapon. “Don’t even think about getting laid until you’re done with your work.”

“I think you’re underestimating how long this is going to take,” I reply, a hint of pleading in my voice.

“That’s okay,” he says, returning to the grill. “Just get your work done. We don’t need to have sex.”

I suspect he’s doing it just to torture me, because we don’t need to have sex is not a phrase I ever imagined coming from his mouth. I bet the words burned his throat a little as they came out.

* * *

I should probably leave after dinner, but I don’t want to. We settle in on opposite sides of his couch: me with a laptop, him with a book, legs intertwined. He seems disappointingly unaware of my presence, whereas I am aware of little other than his. Every time he shifts, every time his foot brushes my leg, I grow very aware of the fact that he is there, and that we have not had sex in nearly 18 hours. Just the way he sits with his legs spread wide makes me think of things I should not.

“A quickie might take the edge off,” I venture.

“Get back to work,” he says, without even glancing up.

Minutes later, I’ve only typed about two sentences, and I am hyper-focused on the fact that his foot has just brushed mine. Such a small, simple motion. It could happen with anyone and be meaningless, except that it's not anyone, it's Brendan, who has the filthiest mind and mouth of anyone I've ever been with. So that little brush of his foot has an entire soundtrack of memories accompanying it.

“I’m having a hard time focusing,” I whine. “Maybe we should…”

He cocks a brow. “Not a chance, blondie. You asked for self control. You’re getting self control.”

Great. Trust Brendan to turn it into a personal challenge.

“You want to try it in the hammock?” I suggest. “I promise I won’t get mad if we fall out.”

He laughs but doesn’t even glance at me.

“Remember when you told me that fantasy you had, with me in the red thong? Well, guess which thong I’m wearing?”

Even that doesn’t work.

“I give up,” I say, pulling off my cardigan. He watches me remove it, and I catch the look in his eyes before he glances away. That’s when I realize how to win this battle.

He returns to his book, but seconds later I catch him looking again, surreptitiously, just for a moment.

I am no longer worried about my project. I can get up at 5 AM to finish it. Or maybe Timothy can fucking provide a week’s notice next time. I set the laptop on the couch, still open, and stand. I start taking off my jeans.

"Seriously?" he groans.