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I thread the needle with slow precision, every movement deliberate. When I lean in to stitch, our faces are inches apart. I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and ragged.
“This might hurt,” I whisper.
His lips curl into a half-smile. My heart flutters. “I can take it.”
The first stitch draws a sharp intake of breath from him, and my breath hitches in response. Each time the needle pierces his skin, it's as if we’re breathing together, growing closer; each movement of the needle — in and out, in and out — stitches us together, too.
The needle slides through his skin, and I feel every ripple of muscle beneath my fingers. His breath hitches again, a sharp intake that I echo involuntarily. Each stitch pulls us tighter into this moment, our faces mere inches apart, each of his ragged breaths mingling with mine.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
His eyes never leave me, dark and stormy, full of a desire that matches the longing in my heart. The air between us crackles with tension; it feels as if the very room is holding its breath alongside us.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
I can almost taste him — the scent of his sweat, the earthy musk that envelops him, fills my senses. I yearn for more than just this closeness; I want to feel his lips on mine, to lose myself in the heat of his kiss.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
Each time our faces draw closer, each precise stitch brings us nearer still. The warmth of his breath against my skin is intoxicating. His lips are so close now, hovering near mine, a whisper away from contact. The world narrows to just the two of us: Hunter and me in this fragile bubble of heated desire.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
My heart pounds a wild rhythm in my chest. I can’t think of anything but how much I want his lips on mine, how desperately I need him to bridge that last inch separating us. I want him to kiss me, to take me, to spin me on this couch and silence every silly objection I’d even try to voice — my paper, that it’s improper for him to fuck his babysitter, that he’s more than a few years older than me, that his life is dangerous, that I have work in the morning — with kisses that take my breath away.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out… for the last time.
“All done,” I say.
He’s still there. Right there. So close that I could turn my head just a fraction and press my lips to his. I want to. So desperately want to.
“Thank you, Emily. I want you—”
Then I yawn.
Deeply and unmistakably, so loud and wide that I’m sure he could look in my mouth and probably see the filling I have on my back left molar.
My cheeks go red and I forget all about how badly I want him to kiss me as I exhale hot, wet, boozy breath into his face.
“Sorry.”
“Long day?” He says.
“I visited my friend Harper after work. She’s a bartender. We caught up…” I say. I can’t tell him about why I went there, about the graffiti that was carved into my car by Jay — graffiti that I did a passable job disguising with some touch-up paint. It wasn’t the best job, but it helps that my car is old and crappy; now, the painted-over graffiti just looks like regular scratches among the mess of dents and dings and scrapes.
Hunter sits up and looks me over. There’s still the invitation for more in his burning eyes, but there’s concern, too — does my hard day show in my face that much? Or is it more the fact that I exhaled hot cosmopolitan breath into his face?
My cheeks get redder.
Yes, it’s definitely the cosmo-breath.
“You should get some rest. Thanks for stitching me up,” he says. “I better go check on Charlie.”
I think about protesting, about inviting him to stay, but I yawn again. Deeper and louder this time, somehow. My body moves despite all my brain’s exhortations, and as Hunter stands, I stretch out on the couch, another yawn breaks my lips, my eyes shut, my senses shut down, and sleep takes me.
But not before I swear I feel his lips touch my forehead and a quiet whisper hits my ears.
“Sleep tight, Em.”
