Chapter 5: Not Even Close

"You never hated me," I said to the dark.

"No."

"You've said horrible things to me in front of the whole room."

"I know."

"You moved your desk to the other end of the building."

He didn't answer that one.

I rolled onto my side and found him already looking at me, a pale shape in the lamp from the parking lot.

"Then why?" I said.

"Because the alternative was this."

My breath stopped.

"This," he repeated, quieter, and his hand came across the sheet and found my wrist.

His thumb pressed against my pulse.

I let him feel it racing.

"Tell me to go to the chair," he said. "Tell me now, and I'll go, and in the morning we'll never mention it."

"Do I look like I want you in the chair?"

I climbed across the white sheet and sat astride his hips.

His hands landed on my thighs and gripped.

"Lena."

"Mercer."

"God, you're going to be the death of me."

"That's the idea."

I leaned down and kissed him, and this time there was nobody to ring the phone.

He rolled us over so fast that I yelped.

Then he was above me, bracing himself on his forearms.

He looked down with his hair in his eyes and the scar through his eyebrow gone pale in the half-light.

His hands were shaking when they touched my face.

I had never once seen Caleb Mercer's hands shake.

"Off," he said, and tugged at the hem of the grey shirt.

I let him pull it over my head.

He sat back on his heels and just looked at me.

It lasted long enough that I began to feel the blush spreading down my chest.

"What?" I said.

"Three years," he said, hoarse. "I've been imagining it for three years, and I got it wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"You're better."

I laughed, and then his mouth closed over my nipple and the laugh turned into something else.

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