Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  But he was there, catching me before I could fall, wrapping me in his arms and holding me close. Matt laid me back on the cushion, his agile form still moving over mine, still moving inside me.

  “You’re so lovely,” he said.

  My eyelashes fluttered open, our eyes mating along with our bodies.

  And then he said, “God, Marie. I’m so in love with you.”

  And I stiffened beneath him. My mouth fell open. I stared at him and his words, spoken so earnestly on an anguished exhale.

  Too many thoughts.

  Too many feelings.

  Too big.

  Too much.

  A rush, a wave, a tsunami.

  The earth moved, at least for me it did, it shifted on its axis and left me feeling unsteady. Dizzy. Euphoric. Terrified.

  Meanwhile, Matt also stiffened, his movements abruptly ceasing as he blinked, his eyes flaring with panic, clearly just realizing what he’d said.

  And what was just as clear? He’d never meant to say it.

  “Fuck.” His wide stare moved over my face. I felt him tense, as though he was planning to withdraw.

  So I reached for him, I wrapped my legs around his back and held fast to his arms. “No, don’t. Please.”

  I lifted my head, kissing his parted lips, smoothing my hands up his arms to knead his shoulders until I felt his body relax. He groaned into my mouth as I rolled my hips, then he angled his chin away until his forehead met mine, separating our lips. His breathing was erratic and, though he once again moved within me, and my body lifted to meet his rhythm, I could tell he was still fighting the surge of panic.

  “You feel amazing,” I said, honest in my mindlessness.

  The answering tremor in his body told me he liked my words.

  The tension at my core built once more. I pushed my fingers into his hair and he answered with an agonized growl. Suddenly, his thrusts became harder, longer, less fluid, and I marveled as his control slipped and then snapped.

  A thrill of wonder twisted in my lower belly, spreading to my heart and tightening my throat with emotion as he came, chanting, “I love you.”

  25

  Smart Tissue Autonomous Robot (STAR)

  A robotic arm with an articulated suturing tool and a force sensor to detect the tension in the surgical thread during operation. The arm is equipped with cameras that create a three-dimensional image, to guide the robot as it deploys the tool, and also a thermal-imaging device to help distinguish between similar-looking tissues. The robotic arm is controlled by a computer program with a repertoire of stitches, knots and maneuvers that permits the arm to plan and carry out a procedure, known as anastomosis, which involves sewing together two parts of a bodily tube.

  Source: Children’s National Health System

  Matt collapsed on me, yet he still had the mindfulness to support himself on his elbows, depressing the cushion on either side of my face.

  But our bodies were pressed together. That was the crucial point.

  Meanwhile, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his narrow hips, encouraging him to give me more of his weight.

  His labored breathing at my neck sent sparks along my skin, reigniting the embers still so close to the surface.

  He loved me.

  He loves you.

  …

  …

  …

  God, universe, if there’s anyone out there, please don’t let me fuck this up.

  It wasn’t that I considered myself a fuck-up. It’s just that I wanted this, him, us, so badly. I wanted him to be my person, because he felt so right. He didn’t feel perfect, but that just made him feel even more right.

  I squeezed him tighter, not wanting the moment to end. I was equal parts thrilled and terrified by the possibility of what would happen next.

  “Marie,” he whispered against my hair.

  “Yes?” I closed my eyes, bracing.

  “You’re holding me too tight.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I loosened my arms, having to use a mental crowbar in the process.

  Taking a deep breath, Matt lifted his head and immediately kissed my mouth, encouraging me to lift my torso so he could slide his arms beneath me.

  We kissed. For a long time. We kissed for so long, I became aware of our surroundings again. The dark room, the velvet couch, the still-sparkling glasses of champagne, the glass wall overlooking the dance floor, and the sounds of Cyndi Lauper over the speakers telling me that girls just want to have fun.

  I must’ve been mad. Just a glass wall separated us from hundreds of people, a mere four-digit code separated us from Kerry and Marcus. But I couldn’t bring myself to care. Because he was still kissing me, and he loved me, and everything about him felt like the perfect combination of heavenly and sinful.

  When he pulled away, his gaze lowered to my mouth, and the look in his eyes was decidedly smug. With impressive fluidness, he lifted himself and turned to the side. Immediately, I felt the loss of his body. I mourned it even though my muscles, especially in my legs and hips, were beginning to cramp.

  “Your lips are swollen,” he said, discarding the condom, then returning to lie next to me on his side. Matt smoothed his palm from my thigh, over my hip to my chest. Pausing in its upward trajectory, he fondled my breast. His eyes watched his hand, and the possessiveness in his gaze felt more intoxicating than the four cocktails with dinner. “That’s why I stopped kissing you,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “I stopped kissing you because your lips are swollen. They must hurt.”

  I breathed out an incredulous breath. “Who are you?”

  His eyes cut to mine. “You know me.”

  “Do I? Because, I have to be honest, I wasn’t expecting . . . that.”

  “What were you expecting?” he asked carefully.

  “I don’t know. But the dirty talk was a surprise,” I admitted, tracing his collarbone with my finger, deciding I’d start with the dirty talk rather than jumping straight to, YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH ME????

  Since when?

  Tell me everything.

  Leave nothing out.

  The side of his mouth hitched, again smugly, and his eyes returned to his hand on my breast. “You said yourself, I’m full of surprises.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind.” More smugness.

  “I didn’t. I don’t. I approve.” The words tumbled from my mouth because I couldn’t say them fast enough.

  That made him smile, just briefly, then he swallowed. I watched his profile as the smile melted away and the lines of his face grew stark. He seemed . . . distant. Or rather, reluctantly present but ready to leave. Enigmatic. Like he couldn’t decide what to do next and not knowing what to do next was a foreign state for him.

  I covered his hand on my breast with mine.

  “Matt,” I whispered.

  “Hmm?” He didn’t look at me, his eyes were still perusing my body. It was as if he was trying to memorize the sight of me.

  I reached up with my free hand and cupped his jaw, tears stinging my eyes as I admitted, “I’m so in love with you.”

  Matt’s gaze darted back to mine and he blinked, breathing the word, “What?”

  “I love you.” I also blinked, because my eyes were overflowing with tears. “I love you so, so much.”

  Why are you crying, Marie?

  I didn’t know.

  I honestly had no idea.

  Feelings? Whoremones? Maybe a nearby, but as of yet unseen onion?

  “You do?” he asked, sounding so entirely stunned, I physically ached for him.

  From what I could see through the blurriness of my tears, Matt appeared to be overwhelmed by both thoughts and emotions. Eventually, he released a sudden breath and gathered me in his arms, burying his head in my neck.

  I huffed a laugh, returning his embrace, giving in to the euphoria of loving him, and knowing he loved me in return. What that meant, what came next, would hav
e to wait. I was having difficulty breathing. He was holding me too tight.

  But, honestly, I didn’t mind.

  We dressed. We left. We went back to my place. Matt did two things on the way.

  He texted Marcus and Kerry, letting them know we’d left and that they would have to find their own way around tomorrow.

  He kissed me. A lot. On my neck, face, shoulders, arms, hands, wrists, fingertips, and sometimes mouth. But he did so gently, like he was still concerned about my lips.

  We were kissing as we entered my apartment, as he reached for the light switch and turned it on, as I reached for it immediately after and turned it off.

  “Marie—”

  I slid my hands under his shirt, whispering, “Let’s make love in every room.”

  He made a grunting noise. Actually, it was more of a groan-grunt of helplessness. “Yes. We definitely will. Multiple times. But first,” he caught my wrists and held them between us, “first I want assurances.”

  “Assurances?”

  “Promises. Or oaths. Vows will also do.” Though his words struck me as silly, his expression was stern.

  “About what?” I tried to twist out of his grip, to touch him. He wouldn’t let me.

  “I need to know.” His breathing changed as he stared at me. “When? When did it happen?” Matt loosened his hold on my wrists, bringing my hands to his neck. I was beginning to suspect he liked it when I touched him there. “What did I do to make you love me?”

  I grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, loving that I could now do that whenever I wanted.

  “You were yourself.”

  His eyes told me he didn’t understand. “Meaning?”

  “No. That’s it. I love you, for being you.”

  He stood straighter. “Then when did it happen? What triggered it?”

  Studying him, his furrowed brow, the displeased turn of his mouth, I felt perplexed. A prickle of concern tickled the back of my neck.

  “Matt, love doesn’t work that way. It’s not a binary system of on or off. It’s not a 0 or 1.” I smoothed my hands to his shoulders and then his arms, gripping him tightly should he try to abruptly move away. “It can be sudden, or so I’ve heard. But the love I have for you, what I feel for you, wasn’t ‘triggered’ by any one thing. I love you . . .” I paused, because he flinched a little at the words I love you, making my heart rate tick up. So I repeated, “I love you, because of who you are. Because of the man I’ve come to know. I love you.”

  He was shaking his head before I’d finished speaking. “How many people do you love, Marie?”

  I searched his eyes for a clue as to where he was going with this. “I don’t know. I’ve never counted.”

  “Do you love Fiona?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about Quinn?”

  “Yes . . .” I was glaring at him now, my fingers having relaxed on his arms.

  “How many more?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I love one person. And she’s standing in front of me.” This statement sounded accusatory, belligerent.

  “Are you—” I dropped my hands, stepping out of his grip, “—are you saying my love is worth less because I love many people?”

  “I’m saying you are exceptionally gifted at loving people, even when they’re undeserving of it.”

  . . . What?

  WHAT?

  Okay, that?

  That made me mad.

  “Wow.” I backed away from him, feeling like I’d been slapped, like my lungs were suddenly on fire. Looking everywhere but at Matt, I tried to find the lid to my temper. It had suddenly blown off. “Okay. Wow. Wow.”

  “It’s not an insult.”

  “The fuck it’s not.” Placing my hands on my hips, I angled my chin and met his eyes. “But you’re not insulting me. You’re insulting yourself. And if you wanted to make me angry, that was the fastest way to do it.”

  He glared at me, his head turned slightly to one side like he was bracing for a blow. “You’re too generous.” His voice was deep, quiet, just above a whisper.

  “No. I’m not. You have self-worth issues.” I punctuated the word you by pointing my finger at his heart.

  He swallowed, wincing, but said nothing, and I knew I was right. I was so right. I was the rightest I’d ever been about anything.

  And my rightness made me feel like screaming. It made me want to grab him and shake him until he understood how remarkable he was. How kind, good, clever, thoughtful, intelligent, sexy, wonderful—just everything.

  “You. Jerk.” I shook my head, pissed off beyond reason. “You think you’re not amazing, but you are. And, sure, I could stand here and make a list of all the reasons I love you, of all the ways you are special and awesome, so hilarious and witty, and brilliant, and—” I cut myself off, shaking my head faster. “Nope. I’m not going to do that. Because if you don’t believe these things about yourself, nothing I say is going to change your mind. I’m not going to force you to drink the water, Matt. Even though you should DRINK THE DAMN WATER!”

  He swallowed with effort, like something was stuck in his throat. A long moment passed, my shouted words seeming to echo in the apartment, between us. The silence wasn’t deafening, it was remarkably quiet and still.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat. “I know I’m smart,” he said, like it was a concession, like he was willing to admit one positive thing about himself, but no more.

  My chin wobbled and I had to hold my breath for several seconds to keep myself from crying.

  Staring at him—staring at his exceptional and expressive eyes, so stubbornly skeptical about his own value—I realized that loving someone who doesn’t love himself was like being stabbed, and having no way to stem the flow of blood. I was helpless in the face of his own indifference.

  Only he had the power, and my powerlessness increased my frustration.

  Stupid, fucking dehydrated horse!

  He took a step toward me. “Marie—”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” I asked.

  “No. Of course not. I don’t think you’re stupid.” He reached for me and I let him slide his hands around my waist.

  “Do you think I have poor judgment?”

  He hesitated.

  I opened my mouth, prepared to yell at him again.

  “You were going to let a stranger dry hump you.”

  I heaved an aggravated laugh. “A man I’d carefully vetted, with multiple sources, and had spoken to over the phone several times, and who’d been vouched for by more than one personal friend. Do you know there are dry humpers in Chicago? There are lots. I didn’t feel willing to meet any of them. This guy was the only guy. The only guy.”

  Matt furrowed his brow. “I didn’t have all that information.”

  “So you don’t trust my judgment?”

  “I do. I do trust your judgment.”

  “Do you think I’m a liar?”

  “No. I don’t,” he answered right away.

  “So when I tell you that you are amazing, that you are exceptional, do you believe me?”

  He hesitated, and I saw a fierce debate war within him.

  “Fine. Here’s the thing, you need therapy.”

  He lifted his chin, the sudden flash in his eyes told me he was about to argue.

  I rushed to add, “You need to love yourself. Because, if you can’t love yourself, then I can’t count on your love for me.”

  “Wait a minute, no.” His tone was hard, edged with resentment, as though he resented that I was questioning his love for me. “You cannot possibly believe that I don’t love you. I’m—”

  “You said yourself that people need to be needed. And pride, the fear of rejection, makes the love offered meaningful. If you don’t love yourself, if you don’t see your own worth, then what are you risking by loving me?”

  Matt snapped his mouth shut.

  “My love—” I paused and took a deep breath to calm down, because I realized I was s
till yelling. Forcing composure into my voice, I started again. “My love is worth a lot. A. Lot. Because I know I’m awesome.”

  The side of his mouth hitched reluctantly, his eyes warming as they moved over my face. “True. You are.”

  “I. Love. You. I love you, Matt. I’m in love with you. I’m desperate for you. I think about you all the time. Did you know I have a crush on your chin? I love your chin. And your brain gives me lady-boners. I’ve been walking around with a serious case of blue bean for months.”

  He huffed a laugh, his eyes turning glassy as he again swallowed with effort.

  “But,” I gathered his face between my hands, holding him with reverence, hoping he’d witness and accept the admiration and adoration in my eyes, “I refuse to have you question your value. In doing so, you insult me. If you want to be with me, you’re going to have to find a way to accept that you’re not just worthy of great love, and you don’t just deserve great love . . .” I pressed a kiss to his mouth, and then whispered against his lips, “You must demand it.”

  I didn’t miss how he’d fisted his hands into the fabric of my dress as I spoke, or how his gaze grew agitated with anxiety, or how he leaned closer, hovering, anxious.

  “So . . . ” he cleared his throat, visibly hesitating; I got the sense he was afraid to speak his next thought.

  “Nothing you say is going to make me stop loving you.”

  “What if I told you I was a Slytherin?”

  “I would still love you.”

  “What if I—”

  “Matt. Say it. Ask it. Speak. Trust me, but also trust yourself. Trust you’re worth me fighting for.”

  His eyes shone with emotion. “I want us to be together. I want to be with you, all the time, from now on.”

  “Good. Me too.” I couldn’t have stopped my smile or my sudden happy tears even if I wanted to. I had to press my lips together—again—to fight the wobble of my chin.

  “What if I don’t go to therapy?” he blurted, swallowing. “What if I don’t want to? Will you . . .” he tugged me closer using the fabric of my dress, “do I have a choice?”