Even though I had planned to go, I find myself sitting down beside him again. The need to feel close to him is stifling, but I meant what I said to him in the kitchen. I can't just dive into something serious with him. The pull toward him is serious enough, to add in sex on top of that, especially when I'm still not sure how all of this is going to work … not a good idea. But it won't hurt to just lay beside him for a while, right? He's asleep. And I made my stand in the kitchen even though I was terrified of what he'd say.
Most of my relationships with artists have been about sex. It's the only truthful kind of intimacy I could ever have with them. And I've spent my entire existence knowing the worth of my beauty and my gift. I had been afraid that without my ability and without sex … I might not hold as much interest for Wilder.
Now I feel stupid for that niggling fear. When he'd held my face in his hands, and pinned me with his eyes … gods, he made me feel like the world revolved around me. Like I was the sun, and everything else existed in relation to me, depended on me.
Carefully, I slide a little closer, and without putting too much of my weight on him, I lean into the crook of his arm and rest my head between his heart and his shoulder. His scent and heat surrounds me, and I let myself fall a little deeper into him. His arm drops from the back of the couch, draping along my side and curling around my hip. I tense, and look up, but other than a slight shifting of his body, sinking farther into the cushions, he doesn't appear to be awake.
I stay for another hour, flirting with the edge of sleep in his arms, but when I find myself beginning to replay the night in my head again, I decide I've lingered long enough.
But he apparently isn’t quite as out of it as his sister. He groans and shifts when I climb out from under his arm. While I slip my shoes back on, he blinks sleepily at me, looking almost confused.
“I have to go,” I whisper. “Gwen is in bed. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”
The fog in his eyes clears, and he wipes a large hand over his face before standing. He wobbles slightly, so I assume he's still a little drunk. I would be too if my body didn't reset at midnight.
“You were just going to sneak out again?”
“I was going to leave you a note.”
He crosses the gap between us, and his hand slides around my neck, pausing to rub a circle around my nape before tangling his fingers in my hair. His grip is claiming, possessive, but his nose nudging against mine is sweet and playful. “New rule. We never leave without a proper goodbye.”
A smile sprawls unbidden across my mouth.
“And what does a proper goodbye involve?”
His nose rubs against mine again. “It involves me thanking you for spending time with me, and reminding you of why we should do it again soon.”
He kisses me then, slow and still a little sleepy. His mouth moves against mine with a laziness that feels easy and gentle, and like an introduction to a new part of us. This is what it's like to touch with no endgame, no destination. This is a kiss that doesn't ask for anything, it just is. This kiss is closeness and comfort, and when it's over, I'm battling the same urge to cry that had gripped me when I watched him sleep.
Who would have thought that at my age, I could still experience a new kind of intimacy from a mere kiss? Something altogether different from everything I've ever experienced.
“Thank you,” I whisper when he pulls away.
One corner of his mouth lifts in a devilish smile.
“I think you're confused. That kiss was me thanking you.”
“I know. But still.”
“Well, now I have to say you're welcome.”
But instead of saying it, he kisses me again, his tongue sliding against mine with a little more force, a little more urgency. I have that falling sensation I sometimes get in dreams when he pulls away, and I stare at him for a few long moments before I remember that I'm supposed to be leaving.
“When can I see you again?” he asks as I shuffle toward the door.
My immediate response is to say tomorrow, but I stop myself. I should wait and see how I'm feeling tomorrow, where my energy levels are at.
“I'm not sure. How about you call me, and we'll figure something out.”
I have to give him my number because he doesn't have it, and when I'm done rattling it off, I'm tempted to make another excuse to stay. But he yawns again, and I know I should let him get some sleep. I say a final goodbye and head out the door. He stays on the porch, arms crossed over his chest to fight off the cold, waiting until I get in my car and pull away.
You’ve got time, I tell myself, and resist looking back through the rearview mirror. Time to see him, time to figure out how this will work, time to explore the happy hum of the connection I feel between us. But in the back of my mind, I can't help but think that time is relative here. Wilder is human. Which means I've never been lower on time than I am right now.
He calls the next day, and I make an excuse as to why I can't see him. It hurts, because all I want to do is find out where he is and run straight there. But I was right … my energy levels are higher than they should be. I should have been good for at least another day before needing to expend some of my influence, but there's a restless churning in my chest that tells me otherwise. Normally, I would probably be fine to go a little while longer, even with my energies this high. But what if I saw him again like this? What if the level spiked, and there was no one else around, no other option? What if I lost control again like I did in that club? What if Gwen was there when it happened?