When they were done, Ruth grabbed the plates and took them both to the sink. She turned the taps on as high as they’d go, and watched the water rise over the dirty dishes, and tried to convince herself that she could not feel Evan staring at her.

That would be ridiculous.

To prove it, she took a peek over her shoulder at him. Just a little one, she told herself, to quiet her rambling mind. To prove to herself that, just because he was awfully attractive and funny and sweet, and he seemed to like spending time with her, didn’t mean this was a… thing.

She found him lounging in her tiny kitchen chair, watching her with almost painful intensity.

Oh.

When he arched a brow, his lips curving slowly into a smile, Ruth realised that her little peek had become a very long look. Her cheeks heating, she turned back to the sink.

Step one of washing dishes: water. What was step two, again? She couldn’t remember. Every time she tried to get her mind in order, she was assaulted with images of Evan. Evan’s long legs spread wide, his thighs straining beneath his jeans, tattooed arms folded over his chest. Right behind her. Shit.

“The way you look at me sometimes,” he said. His voice was low. She shouldn’t have heard him over the running taps, and yet the deep rumble seemed to vibrate in her belly.

And between her legs.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, turning off the stream of water.

“Really?” There was something in his voice that might’ve been humour if it hadn’t been so heavy. “The day we met, you looked at me like you’d never seen a man before.”

Because I’d never seen a man like you. “That was shock, actually. You know, because I fell.” She was impressed with the steadiness of her own voice. Her own, lying voice.

“And Saturday?”

Ruth swallowed. “I don’t know why you’re fishing for compliments. You must know that, objectively speaking, you’re very attractive.”

She heard the scrape of chair legs against lino, heard his familiar tread as he crossed the narrow space. “Maybe. But I’m trying to figure out your opinion on the matter.”

She knew, somehow, that he would touch her.

When he did, it was better than she’d expected.

His chest pressed firmly against her back, the heat of his body surrounding her. He put his hands against the counter in front of them, bracketing Ruth with hard, warm muscle. “You see,” he said, his tone conversational, “sometimes I think I can read you. Then something happens, and I realise I can’t. Not completely. Not yet.”

Ruth shivered.

He leaned in even closer, bending down until his mouth brushed her ear. “So why don’t you tell me, Ruth? Tell me what’s going on inside your head.”

She couldn’t speak. She also couldn’t help herself. Ruth raised a hand, reached back until her fingers slid into his hair, felt the curve of his skull. Pulled him closer, and wondered what the fuck she was doing.

Then she let her head fall to the side, exposing the line of her neck. A moment later, she felt his breath whisper over the sensitive skin of her throat.

Ah. That’s what she was doing.

Oh, dear.

Evan kissed her neck, his mouth soft and hot and everything she’d ever needed. Ruth’s knees might have buckled if she hadn’t been ready, completely ready, to feel this level of ecstasy at his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m usually much better than this.” His hands came to rest on her hips, sliding under the hem of her pyjama top.

“Better?” She echoed faintly. His fingers traced circles over the sensitive skin of her belly, and she moaned. Heat flooded her pussy, zipped up to her nipples.

“Better at controlling myself.” His tongue slid over her pulse, and then, lightly, he bit. “I don’t know what I’m doing. We barely know each other.”

Ruth arched against him, pressure building deep inside her core. “You’ve never slept with someone you barely know?”

“No. I couldn’t sleep with you yet. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”

Of all those nonsensical words, yet was the one that caught her attention.

It had never occurred to her, while she was drooling over his unreasonable hotness, that he might somehow find her attractive. Why had that never occurred to her?

“They all think you’re ugly. But I know you’re beautiful, Ruth.”

She pushed the memory away. It wasn’t even hard. Not when one of Evan’s hands slid away from her hips, down towards the apex of her thighs. His palm flattened against her cotton-covered mound, and he pushed her more firmly against him.

The thick column of his erection pressed into her lower back.

“Jesus, Evan,” she breathed. At the feel of that insistent length, a pulse of energy rocketed to her clit. Her stomach tightened. She hadn’t felt like this in so long. She hadn’t deserved it. She wasn’t sure if she deserved it now.

He laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh she recognised. It was low and dark and sent a thrill up her spine. “Do you like this, love?” He pressed the heel of his palm against her clit, the pressure delicious even through her clothes. “Tell me.”

Ah.

Just like that, the blazing purity of pleasure drained away. The reality of who Ruth was—how Ruth was—crushed her the way pianos crush cartoon characters. She was still breathing, somehow, but she shouldn’t have been.

Ruth absolutely could not tell him anything. Anything at all.

Swallowing down her sudden panic, Ruth said, “We should stop.”

In a breath, he went from surrounding her to disappearing. She felt suddenly cold, suddenly alone, without his arms around her.

But that, she reminded herself, was the safest way to feel.

“Are you okay?” Evan asked softly.

Hesitant, she turned to face him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted. Beautiful. Still, she saw apology written over his face. He folded his hands in front of his waist, and she wondered if he meant to hide the bulge straining against his jeans or draw attention to it.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You don’t seem fine.”

Ruth didn’t know what to say to that.

After a pause, he said, “I’m… I’m sorry, Ruth.”

“You don’t need to be sorry—”

“But I am. I shouldn’t have done that.” He cleared his throat. His posture was perfect as ever, almost painfully stiff.

Almost, her mind thought feverishly, as stiff as his—

“I didn’t come over here to… to harass you,” he said. “I just wanted to see you. I hope you believe that.”

She licked her lips and nodded. She had no idea what, exactly, was happening here, but it seemed polite to let him finish.

“I very much enjoy spending time with you,” he said. “I hope you might consider me a friend.”

“I do.”

That, at least, drew the ghost of a smile from his lips. “Good,” he said, almost to himself. “Good. I… I’d understand if you didn’t want me to come over anymore.”

“But I do,” she said firmly. “I do want you to come over.”

She should be grateful, really. This was perfect. Beyond perfect. He was saying all the things that should be coming out of her mouth, as if following a script. So why did she feel childishly disappointed?

His gaze was intense. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she practically cried. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He gave her a short nod. “Well… I’ll be going, then.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

For a second they stared at each other across the kitchen. She could still feel the rasp of his fingertips against her belly, could still feel the pressure of his palm against her clit. She tried to make herself forget—she was good at forgetting—but found that she could not.

When he finally walked out of the kitchen, she sagged against the counter in relief.

And when he came over the next day, and the next, she told herself that talking and joking and never, ever touching was absolutely fine.