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Maybe I’m hyperventilating, although I’m doing my best to appear calm and control my breathing.
Maybe it’s something else.
I feel weakness in my knees and dark emotions swirling in my chest. This must have to do with my brain. Nothing is wrong with me physically, but it surely appears that way.
I can’t say I’m dying to lock his eyes. Locking his eyes is the last thing I want to do.
But it happens when he turns to me, and his eyes find mine, and I feel like someone has just wrapped an iron hand around my neck, making it impossible for me to breathe.
He doesn’t look down at my dress, although there is a lot to see, the garment revealing a lot.
And he doesn’t smile, nor does he frown. He is not distant or disconnected. He is very much present. Too present, in fact, while peering at me with curiosity.
My hands start trembling, and my insides flutter.
I can’t be so close to him right now, as this is already turning into a nightmare.
Without a word, I make an awkward gesture as if I have forgotten something in the room, and I fall back inside, leaving him in the hallway.
What the fuck.
I breathe.
I draw in more than enough air to oxygenate my blood.
I breathe in and breathe out and coach myself into regaining my calm.
This is a full-fledged panic attack, and it’s new to me, so I try to get a grip on myself before taking another long breath and walking out, smiling as if nothing happened.
This time, he turns all the way and faces me.
I shoot him a side-eye glance, and that’s pretty much all he gets from me before I tuck my key card into my purse.
I’m thinking––frantically thinking––while buying some time.
If he would as much as rest a finger on me right now, I’d probably collapse, and this scares the shit out of me.
I put on a brave smile and look up.
“Sorry. I forgot something,” I say nonchalantly, giving him an empty grin.
“No problem.”
He studies me intently. And that’s the last thing I needed.
His gray eyes move over me, a ton of words held back, some heavy with resentment on my part, the tension thicker than the walls.
Observing me like that is worse than fucking me the way he did this morning.
We start to walk. We don’t touch. Don’t kiss. Don’t hold hands. There is space between us, and I begin to wonder… How will we get from these awkward moments to sex?
“How was your day?” he asks, holding the door for me while I slip into the elevator.
We are the only people inside, and there is not enough oxygen for me.
“It was good. Yours?”
“Same.”
