Page 83 of Only and Forever
I sigh. “Viggo. Would you please stop being so considerate? And sleep more?”
His gaze holds mine. “Sleep is overrated—”
“False.”
“And I like thinking about you, Lu. You’re my roomie. I want you to be able to get whatever you need around here.”
His roomie. That’s all I am right now. A valuable reminder. Platonic cohabitation is our boundary, until we discuss it being other than that. Which we haven’t. BecauseIasked to cuddle first.
“Fine. Popcorn it is.” I ease up, clutching the sofa and kneeling to stand. When I’m upright, I glance over my shoulder. Viggo’s gaze is fixed right on my ass. “Enjoying the view?”
His gaze snaps up to me guiltily. He bites his lip. “I’m just a man, Tallulah.”
“That’s how the guy who wears a ‘Read romance, fight the patriarchy’ shirt justifies objectifying me? Toxic masculinity?”
He grimaces. “Human, I should have said. Who, I might add, only just now gave in to the temptation to look.”
I fold my arms across my chest and stroll toward him, until my dress brushes his bent knee. He stares up at me. I stare down at him. “This is yourfirsttime checking out my ass?”
His cheeks pink. “I mean... I might have rounded down. A lot.”
I lean my knee into his hand where it rests on his thigh. Hisfingers brush my knee, once, gently. Our eyes hold as I lean my knee in harder. His fingers trail higher, up my thigh, beneath my dress, skimming beneath the hem, grazing my skin.
We’re playing with fire. But hell if I care that I’m going to get burned. I want him. And he wants me.
Talk, Tallulah! You’re supposed to talk!
“I don’t think we should make popcorn just yet.”
Viggo swallows. “No?”
“No.” Slowly, I reach for his thigh, pulling it wide, until there’s space for me to sit again. I ease down, one knee drawn up, the other leg hanging off the couch, and hold his eyes. “I think we should talk.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Tallulah
Playlist: “Nobody,” Bess Atwell
“Talk.” Viggo blinks as if I’ve stunned him.
I smile nervously. “Caught you off guard with that one, didn’t I?”
“I mean... a little.” He sits up straighter on the sofa, his hand reaching for mine. I lace our fingers together. “But I’m here for talking.”
“Good.” I clear my throat, nerves tightening my voice. “Because I want to tell you about what’s going on, since my call with my parents, since I went for that ride last week and came home. I want to talk to you about a lot of things. And I want to talk about”—I gesture between us—“this.”
He swallows, nods. “Okay. I’m listening. And... I’m ready to talk, too.”
I draw my hand from his and clutch mine together, take a deep breath. And then I tell him—more than I’ve ever told anybody. About my family, my parents, my siblings, our dysfunctional dynamic. I give him the bullet-point, boiled-down version, a crash course on my life, from childhood up through high school, college, the fallout with Clint, the steady loss of my friends.
When I’m done, I peer up from where I’ve held my gaze fixed on my clasped hands.
Viggo stares at me, his brow furrowed, his mouth tight. “Lulaloo,” he says quietly.
I bite my lip, trying not to cry. And then I realize... I can cry. Because I’m feeling deeply, scared but also brave. I feel raw and naked, like, all this time, I’ve lived wrapped in layer after layer that dimmed sensation, dulled light and sound and scent, and now that I’ve unwrapped myself, I’m inundated by all that I’m feeling. It’ssomuch.
Slowly, Viggo leans closer, sliding his hands over mine, which are still knotted tight. He holds my eyes. “Thank you.”