Page 61 of No One But Us

If she was more observant, she’d notice how guilty we both look, but she’s too busy griping about work and Max to notice. For 30 minutes we sit there. He watches me. There’s something feral in his eyes, which I like—and something conflicted, which I don’t.

Finally Ginny yawns and turns to me. “You ready for bed yet?”

I definitely am, but not in the way she’s thinking. “No, not yet.”

“Come on,” she whines. “I want to hear what really happened with Justin, away from prying ears.”

I shoot a quick glance at James and watch that muscle pop in his jaw.

“I already told you what really happened,” I say. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Well, of course you’re going to say that with James sitting there acting parental. Come on,” she whines.

I take one lingering glance at James as I go inside.

What she really wants to talk about is Max, and the fact that he is once again not sleeping at home. When I have no comment on that, she asks if she should break up with Alex. I tell her yes, I think she should, and she proceeds to argue about all the ways he’s a perfect boyfriend and would make a perfect husband. My phone buzzes.

James: Can you come back down?

Me: When she falls asleep.

James: I can’t wait that long.

Me: You Campbells are very demanding.

James: You have no idea how demanding I can be.

That’s when I know I can’t wait for Ginny to fall asleep.

“I’m dying to start my new book,” I tell her. “Will the light bother you?”

I ask this only because I know it will. Ginny’s read some study about how light during sleep throws off your biorhythms and decreases your functional IQ. She won’t even allow a digital clock in here now.

She tsks. “You know I can’t sleep like that.”

“I’ll go downstairs,” I tell her, and she smiles at me so gratefully that I feel like an asshole for lying to her. Not enough to stop me, however.

I get downstairs and tiptoe in through James’ open door, closing it behind me.

He’s already in bed. “Thank God,” he groans. “Come here.”

I walk toward him almost shyly, and when I get to the side of the bed, he pulls me down and rolls me beneath him. It takes that much time for my nerves to evaporate, lost in a haze of want.

He runs his fingers over my cheekbones as his lips graze mine, then move over my face and neck, as if I am fragile. Soft, fluttering kisses, a promise of things to come, but they aren’t enough.

His mouth trails lower, along my neck, my collarbone. A single finger slides along my skin, pulling my tank lower, pushing my necklace aside so his lips can sink into the point in my cleavage where it normally rests. I hear him sigh then, contented, before he comes back up to find my mouth.

We kiss and kiss until I strain for more, arching against him. It’s a relief when his control begins to slip, when the sweetness grows heavy. When the hand at my hip finally slides beneath my tank, grazing my skin, pulling his name from my lips with a needy exhale.

His hand cups my breast, and it’s my response that seems to change things, that makes him abandon his patience and restraint. His breath rasps as he finds my mouth again, as he grabs the strap of my tank top and yanks it down. His hand slides inside, the rough pad of his thumb brushing over me before he pulls the other strap down and lowers his head, replacing fingers with mouth and tongue and teeth.

My hands go to his hair as I gasp his name, but instead of continuing, he pulls away.

“We have to stop,” he pants, flinching as if in pain.

“Stop? Why?” I think I could come just thinking about the way he pulled the straps of my tank down if I contemplated it long enough. Stop? Now?

“It’s enough just to spend time with you. It doesn’t have to be more.” But the quick pace of his breath belies his words. As does the erection currently wedged hard against my leg.