Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Twenty Two

Once upon a time, a small girl watched jealously as her mother was gifted a fancy box of chocolates.

She continued to stare at that box, covetously, as days turned into weeks, and it went on to sit untouched - and apparently unwanted - on the kitchen table. She pined over those chocolates more than she had longed for anything else in her young life. Craved them.

One day, left alone in the kitchen, she decided enough was enough. "Just the one," she told herself. "And, if mum notices the box is open - if she ever even tries to open it, that is - I'll just tell her I don't know anything about it."

She opened the box as carefully as she could, slyly peeling back the tape with her chubby little fingers. Determined to make it look as untouched as possible. Eyes wide in delight at the eight perfect pieces of chocolate sitting in front of her, she selected "just the one" and replaced the box precisely in its original spot.

Only to return ten minutes later for another one.

And another.

When her mum came looking for her daughter, concerned because she'd been so uncharacteristically quiet, she discovered the girl next to an empty box, hands and guilty face smudged with melted chocolate.

That girl was, of course, me.

It appears that as an adult, I haven't changed much. And not just because of my chocoholic tendencies: I'm talking about my apparent inability to stop after "just the one".

Because, back in our fancy suite, in the present, the hand-holding is gradually morphing into something else. Something far less innocent.

It starts off with the most basic of actions, initiated by yours truly - I find myself leaning my head against Lewis' shoulder, and I hear him suck in a juddery breath. His counter-move is to lightly trail his free hand up and down my arm, and I accidentally emit a contented sigh. We're contained within a pleasant yet scary bubble of palpable tension, protected from the outside world. But the building pressure is beginning to suck the oxygen out of this contained space, and my own breath is becoming increasingly shallow.

I'm really trying to concentrate on the witty repartee taking place on the screen in front of us, but most of my attention has been diverted by his touch. Every fibre of my being is telling me: "one more won't do any harm" and I'm trying to resist, but it's like that damn box of chocolates is sitting in front of me all over again.

"Ruby?" His voice is gruff in my ear and thick with longing. Both syllables of my name hang in the close space between us, dripping in meaning.

"Yeah?" I seem to be struggling with my speech again. It's very unsettling when words have always been the one weapon I've had in my arsenal to use against him: now they fail me completely. I raise my head, turn to face him, and he swallows hard, dark eyes intent on mine. Fire burns within the irises, threatening to consume me. His hand tentatively reaches for my face.

"Can I . . ." he begins hesitantly. I don't let him finish. I already know his question.

And I already know my answer.

"Yes."

Our lips meet in one synchronised rush of breath, and everything goes hazy around me as I lose myself in the sheer pleasure of it all. It's somehow hot and sweet and gentle and desperate all at once. His tongue swirls briefly around mine, and it seems so fucking fitting that we both taste of chocolate right now.

I could feast on him forever.

We've kissed for display purposes already, and as a prelude to and during sex . . . But this is a whole new level. He's treating it like the main event; an art form. I'm his muse, and I guess he is mine now, too, because I've never felt this lit up inside from such a simple act.