Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“She did. And she was different. She was an adult, and I didn’t have to be an authority figure anymore. She’d lived abroad for years, and I could trust her to take care of herself.” He massaged the back of his neck. “She used to complain about my despotic tendencies, but I was terrified. She was wild and unpredictable and fragile, and ordering her around was the only thing I could do to keep her out of harm’s way. I began understanding my parents and what they’d gone through with me, except that they were dead and it was too late, and that degree of mindfuckery is just . . .” He shook his head. “She’ll always resent me a little, and maybe I’ll always resent her. But the pain of it has dulled. I truly enjoy watching her doing her shit. She’s way smarter than I was at her age. She’s resilient. She’s determined. She’s kind. And, the whole experience gave me something very important.”

“What?”

“A total lack of interest in having children.”

Rue laughed again, and had he ever yielded more power than right at this moment? Had anything felt better than making her smile when she’d been crying only moments ago? It was fucking intoxicating. Screw science or finance—this could be his craft. He could spend the next few years learning the nooks and crannies of her moods, studying her temperament, cataloging her disposition in all its little idiosyncrasies, and once he’d accrued an adequate body of research, it would be his mission and his pleasure: make Rue Siebert happy.

Way more satisfying than his current job description.

“I didn’t even need to be my brother’s guardian to reach that conclusion,” she murmured.

“Bragging’s not cool, Rue.” He smiled at her amused look, and glanced at the clock hanging on top of a plant rack. It had been twenty minutes. More.

“Thank you. For coming.”

“Thank you for calling me. I’m a simple guy who used to channel his aggression into hockey and now has a boring corporate job. I need to get my kicks somewhere. And . . .” I was thinking about you anyway. I want you to reach out to me when you need something—anything. I want more. If I came clean about that, how would you react?

She nodded like she understood the unsaid. Seemed on the verge of opening up and admitting to something that Eli really, really wanted to hear. Then, at the last moment, defaulted to their usual: she rolled over and wedged herself between his open legs. Her eyelashes were dark half-moons as she glanced down, assessing his body with all the thoroughness of a merciless examiner. Heat surged inside him, the exhilaration and sheer pride that always came from being the object of her attention. Then she took his face in both of her palms and leaned forward.

She tasted like dried tears. Eli deepened the kiss on instinct, but instantly came to his senses. “Rue.” He wrapped his hands around both her wrists. “I didn’t come for this.”

“And I didn’t call you for this.” She gave him a solid, even look. “Can we do it anyway?”

He scanned her face. “If you ask, I’m never going to tell you no. You know that, right?”

“I had my suspicions.”

The kiss resumed, slow, calm, salty, and Eli was able to keep himself in check for about two minutes. Then, it was over. He pressed her into him, pushed into her, ran his mouth down her throat, and when her fingers raked through his hair, he asked, “Here? Or in bed?”

She walked a step ahead and led him down the hallway. Her fingers, wrapped loosely around his, felt as explosive as any other sexual act they’d ever engaged in—positively perverse, given how little real intimacy she usually afforded them. Being escorted inside Rue’s bedroom was like the first time a girl had guided his hand under her shirt: forbidden, terrifying, life rearranging. He wondered if she’d had any other man in her room. Decided it was unlikely. Tried to get his heart not to pound out of his chest.

She was messy in her private space. Surfaces not covered by plants were draped in discarded clothes, unopened mail, empty mugs. It made her room even smaller and cozier, her unmade queen bed narrower. She didn’t bother apologizing for the clutter, and Eli loved that.

He tried to imagine what sharing a living space with her might be: a constant fight to keep her chaos from encroaching on his part of the room. Tripping over the straps of a discarded bra on his way to the bathroom. Memorizing her unsmiling face in the soft morning light. Dreaming of her at night without being afraid to wake, happy in the knowledge that if he reached out, his hand would meet her soft skin. Soaking in that unacceptable feeling that permeated his cells whenever she was nearby. She sat on the edge of the mattress, looked up at him with the intent expression she reserved for talk of nanopolymers, and he couldn’t survive one more second without his head between her legs.

It was becoming easier and easier, getting her off. Like a well-trained musician, he knew exactly how to play her. Satisfaction hit him hard as he dragged her underwear to the side and made her sigh, and shiver, and come over and over, with his mouth and his tongue and his fingers. When she pushed his head away because it was too intense, he saw it in her eyes: she hadn’t thought she was capable of this pleasure. When they were together, she sometimes doubted that her body was really hers.

“Whenever you want to feel like this,” he murmured at the inside of her thigh, “call me. Use me.” Her heels dug into his back like little fists. “I think about doing it every second of every day anyway.”