Page 92 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

He’s still for a moment, and I can practically see his brain working, coming up with and likely dismissing a hundred different potential responses. “Since you don’t believe in romance, I won’t declare any undying love. Instead, I’d argue we’re objectively . . . compatible.”

“No, we’re not.”

Lucas’s smile is rare and brilliant, as if I’ve genuinely amused him. His lips meet mine, somehow both tender and coaxing, firm and certain. I’m so swept away by the kiss it’s hard to remember what we’re trying to discuss.

“Are you trying to kiss me into silence?”

“I learned from the best.”

His lips meet mine again, nipping them open, kissing me so deeply I feel him imprinted on my soul. My hands wind around to his back before settling into his hair, keeping him anchored to me, despite any earlier protestations. He smells like Old Spice and salty sea air. He tastes like wintergreen gum and also something uniquely, unquestionably Lucas. One of his hands cups my head to tilt me while the other holds my hip down, allowing his erection to press into me, making my body feel like a live wire beneath his. I’ve been reduced to nothing beyond a collection of nerve endings, an object that exists solely for Lucas’s touch.

He kisses me until I cannot think of anything else, cannot remember anything else. My doubts, my worries. Maybe my own name.

“I could stop and delineate the reasons you’re wrong. Or we can deal with your headache.”

My brain clings to that word, the one I should be repeating: stop. But my brain and mouth have become disconnected, the neurons misfiring. “Headache first.”

He trails his fingers along my neck, his hand slipping the strap of my dress off one shoulder. Lucas kisses me as he always does—in a way that is too slow and definitely too frustratingly, tantalizingly thorough, as if he needs to document and revel in every tiny, minute detail. I twist beneath him, my hands going from his hair to run along his (now) much broader shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, trying to discern by touch all the ways he’s changed.

He detaches long enough to join me under the covers, and I almost whimper at the momentary separation. As Lucas’s hands begin roaming my body, slowly and reverently, I am desperate to be skin to skin. He slides the other strap of my sundress from my shoulders and pushes my dress down, exposing the simple cotton bra I’m wearing.

A gurgle of laughter escapes me, because after years of secretly hoarding lingerie, of telling Daisy and Gwendy that women should wear lingerie for themselves, to feel sexy and empowered, of course this day, today, I’m wearing beige Target not-branded underclothes.

The type elderly great-grandmothers wear while baking cookies.

Lucas, however, doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

“I’ve missed you. And I’ve missed this.”

His lips follow the trail set by his hands, kissing from my shoulder down to my bra, pushing the cup down enough to expose a breast. His lips close around my nipple, licking and laving until I’m arching off the bed, embarrassingly wet and mortifyingly ready for what’s to come.

He chuckles and I can feel his breath on my chest. And I don’t know—can’t explain—why even this man’s laugh is an aphrodisiac, but it is. Lucas switches to my other breast, teasing and tormenting me until I’m moaning, almost thrashing underneath him.

None too gently, he reaches down to cup me over my dress, a move that ought to give me a little reprieve but instead makes me wilder, arching into his hand, begging for more.

Still, some inkling of self-preservation fights to the surface. When Lucas reaches for the hem of my dress, when I realize he’ll feel the raised rash, even if he can’t see it in the dimming bedroom, I grip his hand.

“Wait,” I whisper, eyes wide, voice laced with panic I can’t disguise.

He stills instantly, holding himself rigid on top of me. The evidence of his arousal burns into my side, despite the layers of his pants and my sundress separating us.

“I’m rushing you.” Lucas is immediately all apology, and not wanting Lucas to spiral, not knowing if the new Lucas still spirals, I plant a quick, firm kiss on his lips.

“You can’t just kiss me every time you want to win an argument,” Lucas teases, his slow grin visible in the fading light. He gathers my wrists in his hands and lifts them up, tilting his hips into mine.

“I want this,” I tell Lucas. If anything, my words are an understatement. I’m panting and we’ve barely started; it’s difficult to make my mind function well enough to come up with a life or half-truth, but I must. “I have to tell you something.” I lick my lips, still stalling. “There was a bad Tinder encounter. After Tatum.”

This part is the complete truth. I’d told myself it was time to move on from Lucas, now that there was no pretense to keep up, and had engaged in a painful but blessedly short flirtation via text. We’d agreed to directly at a hotel.

But I hadn’t been able to do it.

I’d sobbed while trying to undress, unable to think of anything beyond Lucas and that last time with him.

Luckily for me (and unluckily for Shane no-last-name), this had not been a turn-on. He’d told me he wasn’t into dacryphilia—which at least made me laugh, because who knows the scientific name for that particular sexual kink?—and had left me in the hotel room we’d split the bill for.

“Did they—” Lucas swallows. “Was it—” Another breath. “Were you hurt?” Lucas’s voice is so hoarse it’s painful to hear.

“No.” I shake my head. “But if this is going to work, I’ll need to be in control.” I don’t tell Lucas that this is temporary, that like last time, there won’t be a future, regardless of how compatible he thinks we are.