I should just tell him . . . She knew she wouldn’t. Simon was just doing this to help her out. She didn’t want to scare him away, if she lost Simon, she didn’t know what she would do. She couldn’t imagine he’d want to continue splitting an apartment if he knew she had a crush on him. Pretending would have to do. As Connie calmed down, Simon made no move to release her. He stopped reassuring her, but continued to stroke her back. She fits me, he thought. I could just hold her like this for hours. He wanted to tell her, but wasn’t sure. He had sensed that she might return his feelings over the last couple of weeks. At certain times he would catch an expression on her face, or notice her body language, and was fairly sure that she wasn’t pretending at all. Then he would wonder if he was just hoping too much. At last, Connie’s grip on him lessened a bit and he lay back, still keeping his arms around her. She looked up at him, her eyes a bit puffy from crying. Although he couldn’t see how. He made hundreds of strange, tiny observations about the intricate details of her face, but barely remembered to ask her name. They shared uncountably many shy glances, just enough dances not to seem scandalous, and a fiery embrace in the cloakroom. She gave him an address to write to, but he never dared put pen to paper. Two months later, they met again at another ball, but this time there was no holding either of them back, Miss Brunswick broke off her engagement that evening after one too many glasses of wine, and the two of them passed most of the night blissfully ignoring the raised eyebrows and disapproving glares as they allowed themselves to truly connect. At the end of the night, she’d brought him home and blown his naïve little mind. Sweet memories of that very night still gave him a disconcerting thrill. He found himself on the edge of his seat as he remembered the first time her finger had slipped inside him and dragged its way up to his clit. The phantom sensation of the.
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