𝐖𝐀𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓 | 𝟏𝟖+

EIGHTEEN

A L Y S S A

"I'll be honest, lookin' at you got me thinkin' nonsense. Cartwheels in my stomach when you walk in."

. . .

At some point, my sketchbook got discarded and I'm huddled up on the couch in the library, staring at the fireplace in a trance.

I poured myself a drink thirty minutes ago, and occasionally enjoy the taste of whiskey on my tongue.

I have no idea how much time has passed since Roman left, but it's been a while. So many scenarios have been going through my head, it's been driving me crazy.

I tried to fall asleep to distract myself from my thoughts, but they kept me up. Whispers of Roman and Vivienne fucking flashed through my mind. Of her claiming him and leaning up against him as they have a drink.

Would he let her? Would he let her get closer to him, something he refuses to do with me?

What is he doing now? Still at the bar? Enjoying himself?

Throwing the whiskey back, I stand up and walk over to the dresser where the liquor is, and pour myself another one.

"You're not legal yet," sounds a deep and all too familiar voice from behind me.

Whirling around, glass still in my hand, I come face to face with Roman who is leaning against the doorway of the library.

For a moment, I'm so relieved to see him that I nearly smile from relief and run to him – but I don't. Instead, I keep calm and school my features.

"I turn twenty-one in a few months," I shrug, and while he watches, I take another sip while holding eye contact and lick the residue off my lips.

My eyes take him in, and I notice how he's still as he left. No clothes wrinkled, no flushed skin, hair still styled into perfection and unfazed by everything.

Trying not to show the effect he has on me, I take my seat back on the couch and get comfortable. I didn't expect him to move into the room as well.

He crosses the room in long, confident strides until he stands in front of me. "Is that so?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.

I crane my neck to be able to look at him, trying to calm down my racing heart knowing his crotch is nearly in front of my face.

"Yes," I bring out and don't even fight him or argue when he takes the glass from my hands and takes a sip from the whiskey.

Right where my lips were.

He places the glass back in my hands, running his tongue over his lower lip. He lowers himself on the couch beside me, keeping enough distance between us.

The question of asking him how his evening was lies on the tip of my tongue, but I refrain. I don't want him to know that his absence tonight bothered me.

So I just keep quiet and take another sip, where his lips were.

It feels intimate.

Forbidden.

When his eyes move away, I see them take in my forgotten sketchbook on the counter. Without asking for permission, he leans over and takes it in his hands.

I watch his long fingers skim through the pages.

Pages where I've sketched out my dream homes, and buildings, designed futuristic places, and whatnot.

I draw in it in my free time and whenever I'm bored.

When he stumbles across the last pages that I've drawn on tonight, he glances back my way.