A Compelling Motive (h.s.)

four

The key fits into the door, and I open it with my heart racing in my chest. I turn my attention backwards, and I allow the handsome man to walk in. No man has ever really been in my place, other than a few guys back in college. Those were only men who lacked substance, only wanting to have intimate relations. I turned them down without a second thought.

"Can I get you anything?" I offer, his tall stature observing my home. His clothes are soaked, but his car contained extra clothes. As Harry turns, he looks at me standing in my own wet clothes. He takes a step closer to me, reaching behind me to close the door. But what shocks me is when he puts the chain on, locking the door.

"I will take anything you want to give me," he replies, softly kissing my cheek. My body shivers, and his retracts from mine. He walks away, moving towards the hall. He's going into the bathroom, assuming he's changing from his wet clothes.

But my body is weak; his words resonating in my head. They are so loud that I'm not sure what he means; the double meaning to them causing me into a frenzy. I carry myself to the kitchen to compose myself, not wanting to come off as a mess.

I start a pot on the stove, bringing the water to warm for tea. Two mugs are retrieved from the cupboard, as well as two packets of earl grey. My body is a wreck; torn of what to do tonight.

Taking me out of my thoughts are two hands that grab my waist, and I feel warm lips press to my ear.

"I'll take it from here, darling," Harry tells me, and I turn around to meet his gaze. Our eye contact doesn't last long before I escape his embrace to go and change. My feet carry me into my room, closing the door. I slump onto the back of the door, trying to wrap my mind around the past hour. There is not a single word I can formulate into what is going on.

I search for a pair of leggings, grabbing them. In exchange for my jeans, the leggings are set on my legs. I find a long-sleeved shirt and a new bra, switching out what has been on my body. The wet clothes are taken into the bathroom to hang out, then I gather myself to go out by Harry. He's taken a seat in the kitchen, and I move towards him. It's then I realize he is holding my book, flipping through the pages.

"Your analysis of this novel is highly interesting," he says, and I sit beside him. I'm quite nervous, knowing he's looking at my private notes. But he continues. "It happens to be very knowledgeable; incredible insight."

He looks up at me, handing me the novel. I take it from his grasp and he does not falter his gaze, my hand setting the book at the end of the table.

"I don't usually let people read through my books," I admit to him, fearing he's read my connections to my own reality to that of the novel's.

"I'm the same," he responds, "but I'd say mine is due to people ruining my own perspective."

Our eyes are unable to break contact, and I take my hand and reach out. He allows me to grab his hand with both of mine, and I look over the tattoos he has. There are sleeves of tattoos, and I take notice of the tattoos peeking out of his shirt, climbing along his neck.

"Literature is my escape from this reality," I tell him, his hand moving mine to his lips. His soft lips press to the back, and I take note to his long eyelashes. Then his green eyes lock in on my blue ones, taking a moment to observe me.

"It has that effect," he tells me, and I find myself relating to this man. I don't usually meet people who share literary appreciation, but he does.

"Come with me," he whispers, and I nod. He grabs my novel and takes my hand. The two of us move towards my living room, and he sits down on the couch. His back rests against the arm, his legs sprawling the length of the couch. It's now I realize he wants me to sit against him, my back pressed to his chest. My stomach fills with those hypothetical butterflies.