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‘No.’ I step back and make a decision, determined to be a good host for his last night. ‘You can sleep in my room and I’ll sleep in Josie’s. I washed my bedding a couple of days ago. I’m not gross, I promise.’
‘If you’re sure you don’t mind me stealing your bedroom?’ he asks.
Without warning, my mind flashes back to the one other time Finn was in my room, and maybe his does too, because his face contorts and he looks up at the ceiling, slightly pained.
My voice is breezy when I say, ‘I’m sure. All good. Do you want some water?’ I catch sight of the clock as I head to the kitchen and my heart pangs with the realisation. He’s leaving. Soon. Fuck.
While I’d personally be happy with a glass of London’s finest chalky tap water, I use Josie’s filtered water from the fridge this time. In these last few moments we have together, it feels like every decision I make is important. Finn takes his glass from my outstretched hand and leans against the counter in the corner, his left arm braced against the worktop as his right holds the glass to his lips. His stance is relaxed, but his knuckles on the hand against the counter are bone white.
That’s how we stand for a while, wordlessly sipping, like the longer we make our waters last, the longer we can pretend he’s not getting on a plane tomorrow and flying thousands of miles away. I’m distracted enough by the thought that I’m surprised when I hitthe bottom of my cup. I stare at it for a while, as if there’s a solution to soothing my clamorous thoughts to be found there.
I’m dimly aware that the sirens that usually screech at all times of day seem to have quietened. It’s like we’re trapped inside during a snowstorm; the outside world muffled and distant while we’re suspended in time and space in this corner of my kitchen, the air between us heavy and singing with static.
‘So,’ I begin, breaking the silence by placing my empty glass on the counter. I wince when it hits the granite. ‘The London bucket list is officially complete.’
Finn inspects me over the rim of his glass and says quietly, ‘No stone left unturned.’
‘No stone left unturned,’ I agree, eyes locked on his, aware of the determined set of his jaw.
I don’t move a muscle. All I hear is the sound of the clock and the roaring of my own heartbeat. Everything else in the flat seems to be holding its breath.
He finishes his water like it’s a shot. Maybe he wishes it was.
And then he delicately places his glass in the sink, takes a single step forward, and says, ‘Apart from one.’
38
impatience is a virtue
A V A
He closes the distancebetween us like he’s trying not to disturb the air; his breathing steady, no sudden movements, intention painted across every pane of his face. When we’re only a couple of inches apart, his eyes dart frantically between mine; the only giveaway there’s something erratic taking place below the surface.
My hands find their way into his hair and he brings his forehead against mine. I taste the mint from our toothpaste on the air as we breathe each other in, lips almost touching, nothing but our resolve separating us now.
‘Ava,’ he murmurs. He wraps my name in velvet and I want to curl up in the softness of it.
Finally, when it feels like my entire body is aching, our lips meet, the softness of his a stark contrast against the scratchiness of his stubble, and my brain short-circuits as it tries to make sense of what’s happening. He teases my mouth open with his tongueand I let him in, my hands snaking into the hair at the nape of his neck.
This is different. This isn’t the frenzied moments we’ve had before. This is slow, deliberate. It doesn’t escape my notice that it should be the most urgent time of all.
He kisses like he’s been away for a decade, like he’s telling me ten years’ worth of stories with every minuscule shift in position. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe he’s storing up these seconds like they’re the life source that’ll sustain him over the coming months.
The realisation hits me like a punch to the gut. I wish I were ready for Finn the way he wants. I wish we were right for each other, at the right time. Because I want to know his sleepy morning kisses and sweet welcome-home kisses and heavy-eyed carnal kisses. I want him instantly, slowly, all at once, bit by bit, now, tomorrow, always. But somehow, all we have left is tonight.
‘Can we pretend we have more time?’ My voice comes out as a whisper against his lips.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says, planting delicate kisses along my jaw. ‘We have all the time in the world.’
With the languid pace of his tongue and the slow trail of his hands down my body, I almost believe him.
When one hand makes its gentle way down my spine, resting at my lower back, it’s too chaste and I’m too eager, so in the least subtle message in history, I grip his wrist and move his hand to my ass, and he may be in the midst of attempting some kind of Regency-era gentlemanship, but his fingertips still dig into the softness there.
‘I meant the time thing on, like, a larger scale,’ I say, tugging him closer by the hair. ‘I didn’t mean I wanted it to take an hour to get all our clothes off.’
His laugh rumbles through me and it sets off an avalanche, all coherent thought cascading down a hillside and into the valley below. Incidentally,belowis where a lot of feelings are surging at the moment.
‘You’re rushing me.’ His lips press against mycollarbone. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.Slowly.’ He emphasises the last word by dragging his mouth up my neck, breath sending waves of heat radiating across my skin until it settles between my thighs.
