[ Greer glances over at the precise wrong time, catches a glimpse of Embry sticking his thumb in his mouth, the brief peek of pink tongue swiping against the pad of that digit, and her heart practically skips a beat — or maybe it's her pulse, echoed in every other part of her body she can sense it in, a subtler rhythm mimicked through her own heightened awareness of him. She's not trembling, not yet, but if she were, she'd hopefully be convincing enough in blaming it on the chill in the air.
He seems so cavalier about it — her question — and yet she has a feeling that the rakish smile of his, the one that seems to come so easily and emerge over his features so smoothly, is masking something else, something he's trying to sidestep in his answer. Call it growing up around people who make a living out of selling bullshit, call it a more intimate knowledge of him behind closed doors, but sometimes, she wishes she could grab hold of his shoulders and shake him until the truth comes spilling out, no matter how harsh it would be in the telling.
But the second part of that answer is what catches her off-guard when she's distracted with thoughts of him — he's still being nonchalant about it, but is that because he's trying to mask his honesty, the part of him that would've put a ring on her finger and made her his in every way recognized under God and man?
Greer glances down the curve of her shoulder at him, eyes narrowing in exaggerated skepticism. ]
You're just saying that to make me feel better. [ About the mess she'd been that night, about being the girl he'd had to put back together, about everything she'd left in that room with him, all the nakedness that hadn't just been skin-deep. She bats her hand against his, where they're tied together, and decides to reach for the wine with her free one anyway. What's one more swig at this point? Her lips make a soft sound of suction against the opening of the bottle as she pulls off, the words that follow almost softer. ] I might have thought about it with you, too.
no subject
He seems so cavalier about it — her question — and yet she has a feeling that the rakish smile of his, the one that seems to come so easily and emerge over his features so smoothly, is masking something else, something he's trying to sidestep in his answer. Call it growing up around people who make a living out of selling bullshit, call it a more intimate knowledge of him behind closed doors, but sometimes, she wishes she could grab hold of his shoulders and shake him until the truth comes spilling out, no matter how harsh it would be in the telling.
But the second part of that answer is what catches her off-guard when she's distracted with thoughts of him — he's still being nonchalant about it, but is that because he's trying to mask his honesty, the part of him that would've put a ring on her finger and made her his in every way recognized under God and man?
Greer glances down the curve of her shoulder at him, eyes narrowing in exaggerated skepticism. ]
You're just saying that to make me feel better. [ About the mess she'd been that night, about being the girl he'd had to put back together, about everything she'd left in that room with him, all the nakedness that hadn't just been skin-deep. She bats her hand against his, where they're tied together, and decides to reach for the wine with her free one anyway. What's one more swig at this point? Her lips make a soft sound of suction against the opening of the bottle as she pulls off, the words that follow almost softer. ] I might have thought about it with you, too.