Amaratunga threw a glimpse at the phone, stretched, and pressed the button on the side, silencing the call. Interesting... He could've declined it but then the person would know he chose not to talk to them. Instead, he was giving them an impression that he couldn't hear the phone. The screen went dark - and lit up two seconds later with another call from Pickle. Amaratunga repeated the manoeuvre.
"Do you want to pick it up?" Anastasia asked innocently. "I can leave the room, since you can't hide in a bathroom with it."
"It's OK," he said, his eyes on the telly now. "What do you think of some good Sci-Fi? There's a couple of–"
The phone stopped vibrating and then dinged, signalling a voicemail.
"Are you sure?" Anastasia asked. "They clearly fancy talking to you."
"I'm sure," he answered, a tense note creeping into his tone. "StarTrek? Or some murder mystery? I remember you mentioned you enjoyed psychological thrillers. How about Shetland? I haven't seen it but–"
The phone emitted a loud beep, and Anastasia once again couldn't help but see that he got a text from Pickle. Blimey, that's a lot of exclamation marks!
"But the rating is very good," he continued stubbornly. "And the actor–"
Beep.
Beep. Beep.
She could almost hear how he ground his teeth, muscle knots moved on his jaw.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Are those... heart emojis?! Is he dating a teenage girl? Or a boy. A person. No judgement on either - but lots of judgement on the gifs and stickers jumping on his screen.
Beep. Beep.
"Would you already answer them?!" Anastasia hollered, stretched, and jerked her chair towards her. "I'll go to the loo meanwhile, or something."
"Anastasia, honestly–"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Actually, you know what? I have plenty of work to do," she said, pushing the afghan off her legs. "Maybe you should just talk to your friend, and then watch some Ghibli on your own."
He jerked towards her, hissed, and dropped back onto his cushion.
"It's not what–"
Beep.
Beep.
Oh!
Is that–
It is! No bloody way!
Why did you look, Anastasia?!
But that's definitely what she thinks it is. Who she thinks it is.
"Listen, I get it," Anastasia started speaking very, very quickly. It's not like you to be so flustered, Ten. What's with mumbling? "There's all this sexual tension between us, and you're home for Christmas, and 'tis the season, but can you, please, talk to your girlfriend? I'm honestly fine with–"
Beep.
"It's not what you think!" he exclaimed.
"Do you mean to say, it's not a picture of the famous actor Antonia Okonedo and her child that you've just received? In their PJs, eating croissants?" Anastasia immediately hated her own screechy caustic voice. You sound jealous, Anastasia. And bitchy. Pull yourself together. "Sorry. It's really none of my business." She shifted closer to the edge of the sofa. "Like I said, it's all this daft holiday cheer, and we're the only single people here. Well, as it turns out, we aren't, but–"
Beep.
"It's her son who's calling and texting me!" he barked, and Anastasia froze with her hand on the seat of her chair. "Antonia is my ex." Amaratunga exhaled sharply. "I still keep in touch with Dan. He's eight, he's known me since he was a baby. They're in LA, and he hates it there. He's not allowed a camera on his phone, so I assume Antonia took that picture and shared it with him, and he sent it to me."
You know, what's the most alarming thing here? It's the fact that you're so bloody chuffed to hear this that it takes all your willpower not to smile right now, Anastasia. Do you - by any chance - fancy the bloke?!
"Like I said, it's none of my business," she said and jerked her chin up. "You don't have to explain anything to me."
He titled his head, looked her over, and then pressed his hands into the sofa and sat up a tad higher on his cushion. Is he trying to gain a better vantage?
"But I thought there's all this sexual tension, and we're both single, and it's the season, and–" he started listing, going as far as uncurling his fingers. Puffed up prick!
"I have emails to write," Anastasia grumbled.
"You could," he murmured and crossed his arms on his chest. His left eyebrow rose under the very angle that pissed her off so much. "Or you can stay and address the fact that you just threw a benny because you didn't want to share my attention."
What?! What?! How dare he! Bloody peacock!
"If it were your beloved anime, I'd punch you in the face and call you 'baka' right now," Anastasia growled and jabbed her finger in front of his face.
"If it were my beloved anime, I'd have grabbed and kissed you," he quipped back, his face suddenly just a few inches away from hers.
Ahhhhhhhh!!!
He fell back onto his cushion. "But you know, consent has to be 'verbal, informed, sober, enthusiastic, and ongoing,' after all," he added and smirked.
Oh.
Oh...
Oh.
And he's just sitting here like at a civilised dinner party! What a tosser! An arrogant, self-assured, conceited tosser! Who does he think he is?!
She suddenly realised he could see right through her. And probably hear her internal screaming. The wise thing to do right now would be to get in her chair and go to her room. Cool her head. Return to Earth. Get away from the warmth of his body and the intoxicating smell of his skin and his fresh, elegant cologne.
Except, there was a challenge in his eyes.
She pushed away from her chair and shifted back onto her spot on the sofa.
You're moving in the wrong direction, Anastasia. It's not too late to leave this charged situation and–
She turned and studied him, frowning and gritting her teeth. He withstood her glare, his face relaxed and amicable. Anastasia carefully put her hand down on the velvet between them, leaned forward and down to him, and closed her eyes. Three, two, one...
"You still have to ask," he murmured.
She was so close that she thought she'd felt his lips brush at hers when he'd spoken. Wait– what?!
Her eyes flew open, and she stared at him.
"That was the deal, wasn't it?" he said. "You can have whatever you want any time, but you have to ask."
Anastasia had half a mind to tell him to sod off - but if she moved away, it would mean he'd gotten an upper hand.
"Is this a game to you?" she sneered.
"Not in the slightest," he answered. "But I'm pretty sure you are used to it being a game. And if you have it your way right now, you'll never let me in."
Let him in?!
There was no such thing as 'letting someone in' in Anastasia's rulebook! No one was allowed 'in.' That's not how Anastasia Ten functioned!
She needed to back off - right now! Before it's too late! Before–
What if he's just not that into her? He's literally not moving a finger! He's Roy Amaratunga! He'd dated, shagged, and had been caught on camera in his Aston Martin with models, actors, and a famous plastic surgeon! Maybe, he just wanted to add a 'celebrity chef' to his collection! That's what he'd called her the first day, innit? That was yesterday, Anastasia!
He's not even touching her! Where are 'the signs?' A brush of a hand to her cheek? A nod? A half-smile? A quarter-wink?
Oh right. She's supposed to ask.
White chocolate and strawberries.
Alla turca.
His hand between her palms, his chest rising in anxious inhales.
His eyes, the colour of Anastasia's childhood favourite gooseberry jam.
"Can I kiss you, please?" she whispered, closing her eyes again.
"God, yes..."
Technically, it was he who kissed her. And it could only be considered a kiss, and not a proper snog, for about four seconds - because then he grabbed her by the back of her neck, jerked her to him, and went for it.
Given, the first four seconds had been... magical.
How does one kiss to make the other person feel like that?! Like it's your first ever kiss? Like you've never been that... alive? Like you're drowning - but also, like you're flying?
Second five and six of kissing Roy Amaratunga were no less revelational. Anastasia truly hadn't known how quickly and how profoundly randy she could feel!
She pushed her fingers into his hair, rumpling handfuls of his silky, heavy locks, and then pulling at them - because it just didn't feel enough! Nothing felt enough - kissing, kissing his lips, then his neck, tasting him, touching, clawing, his shoulders, and his chest; and his hands stroking her jaw, and squeezing her, and a low rumble, and a growl, and a shuddered exhale when she dipped her tongue in his jugular notch, and his pulse that she somehow could hear - not enough!
More, more, more!
And then he grunted - and that was not a sound of pleasure!
Bugger! His tailbone!
One of them needed to be clever. He's not slowing down, is he? Anastasia moaned, mostly in frustration, pressed her hand into the back of the sofa - and pushed off his chest, rising above him. Her left hand was still on his - firm, scorching, delicious - pectoral muscle, where she'd been plastered just a few seconds ago.
Heavens above! Now she definitely knew that he was faking it in the show, because that was what aroused Roy Amaratunga looked like. And that was worthy of R18 rating, even though he was fully dressed and wasn't moving! The heavy breathing? The swollen, bright lips? The eyes that were, pardon the romance novel vernacular, blazing? Bloody hell...
"You're hurt," Anastasia muttered, squeezed her eyes, and attempted to sober up.
"No, I'm not," he deadpanned.
Anastasia stared at him. "You are. You're in pain."
"No, I'm not."
"You are. And I physically can't be on top, unless you support my weight, which you can't. So we're stopping," Anastasia stated, and his eyes widened.
"Are you seriously expecting me to stop after you've just voiced out the mechanics of shagging you?" he asked in disbelief.
"There's nothing unusual in the mechanics of shagging me," Anastasia grumbled. "Just google it."
"Oh I will, and extensively, but regarding right now– Anastasia!" he groaned, because she moved off him completely.
After a moment of consideration, she shifted even further away from him. He was still gawking at her with a bewildered expression on his face.
"Can you stop staring at me?" she croaked. "It's for your own good."
"No, it isn't!" he exclaimed. "Now I'm in much more pain than I was before!"
"Sorry, I shouldn't have leaned on you."
"That's not what I'm talking about!" He waved his hand vaguely above his lower half. "How am I supposed to–"
"It'll go away," Anastasia retorted.
"I'm not talking about my wood either!" he replied. "I'm... frustrated. Emotionally. And physically - but mostly emotionally!"
"You'll live," she bit back.
God, she's frustrated too. So very frustrated... Maybe, they could still do something. After all, if she just moved closer, and– And surely, one kiss wouldn't harm. And if they were careful, maybe–
The electric lock on the entrance door beeped. Anastasia shot up, her spine straight and rigid, her heart thump-thumping in her throat, while Amaratunga grabbed and plopped a cushion over his crotch.
"Arse," he muttered, and Anastasia fully shared his sentiment.