The Stand In by Alam Donna

Author:Alam, Donna
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-03T16:00:00+00:00

15

Heather

Archer holds my hand as we leave the bar and is still holding it when we reach the top of the grand staircase. Under the judgmental glare of the mounted stags head, I try to pull my hand away to ostensibly brush the hair from my face, but his fingers clasped to mine, and he pulls me to a stop instead.

‘Here. Let me help.’ I can’t raise my eyes to his; instead, I stare at the hollow of his throat, and the way his jacket sleeve bunches around his bicep as he slides his fingers through my hair. My whole body quivers, my reaction to his touch like that of a cat.

At the door, I fumble with the old-fashioned key, missing the lock twice as Archer’s arms brush my waist, setting off a tiny series of fireworks as they wrap around my middle.

‘Here, let me,’ he whispers, taking the key from my suddenly sausage fingers— they’re about as much use as far as keys and locks are concerned—the key immediately connecting with the lock.

‘Of course, you would get it in first time.’

‘Is that my cue?’ His breath is hot in my ear, the sensation repeating between my legs. I close my eyes, leaning back against the solid realness of his chest, unable to believe I’m about to do this. I’m nervous but undeterred. Especially as his fingers squeeze mine. It’s a strange kind of comforting.

‘Go on, then. I know you’re just dying to tell me how good you are at fitting things in.’

His lips find the back of my neck as he whispers, ‘Or I could just show you instead.’

One twist of the key, and the door falls open, and I hasten from the circle of his arms. The curtains are open, and there’s enough light from the moon to allow me to see my way to the bed. Not that I’m desperate to get to that part right now—I’m not about to tear off my clothes and launch myself into it—but I want to switch on the bedside lamp as an alternative to lighting up the whole room. That light would be too glaring. Too much. Too real.

As Archer’s footfalls sound softly behind me, I’m grateful that he gets that.

‘I want this more than anything,’ he whispers, his arms enveloping me again. ‘I want you more than I think you would believe. But it only works if you want this, too.’

My answer is to turn and press my nose into the triangle of skin where his top button is undone, taking a deep inhale of the scent; something spicily expensive mixed with the heady yet indefinable scent of Archer Powell. He smells like sunshine. Is that mad? Like someone who bakes in its rays regularly.

As I exhale, I bring my shaking hands to his shoulders to push his jacket off, wrestling it from his arms, in a not-so-gentle contrast to my sigh. As it falls from his fingers, I throw it on the bed. As I turn back, his lips are on mine in an instant.

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