November 2018
Bochum, Germany

As soon as Ian offers to turn on the camera, I agree.

Even though I've seen him recently at the conference, there's something different about him being this close to the camera. So close that I can see every detail of his face. His square jaw. His dark gaze. His defined lips.

God, how I missed those lips.

God, how I want to kiss those lips.

God, I've always wanted to kiss those lips from the first day we met.

Because Ian's started the call right after work, he's still dressed in his expensive business suit, radiating confidence. But not like Marcus. There's none of that terrible trickster vibe. No, Ian is approachable. Still, there's a sharp edge to him that wasn't there in college. One I can't quite pinpoint.

"My muse?" he asks. "Would you like to turn on your camera as well?"

A part of me is self-conscious. Though Ian's slender physique might never appear on the cover of a steamy romance novel, he's definitely attractive to me. Tall with wiry musculature, he has an understated strength honed by hours of hiking, swimming, and running. Whereas I still have a bit more padding than I'd like, even though I'm on a healthier diet.

"I'm not...as slender...as I used to be," I say.

"None of that matters as long as you're happy with yourself."

"Okay." After turning on the camera, I look away from the lens. It's almost like I'm too shy to face him right away. "Here I am."

"My muse, look at me."

When I bravely glance at him, it seems like all the sharpness has melted away. His gaze is kind. Gentle. Almost like a warm embrace from afar.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, his eyes fixated on the screen. "You don't need to worry about anything."

My heart swells until it fills the room.

His gaze is too intense, but I don't want to look away. "Thanks."

His lip ticks upward. "How was your day today? Tell me what happened."

I chuckle. "Like every weekday, I got my ass—oops, I mean butt—up at five-thirty and rushed out the door at six. Sorry, I know you don't like swearing."

"I don't mind it when you do it," he says.

"Sorry, habit." I breathe a sigh of relief. "Anyway, it takes me two hours to get to Münster—"

"Where you used to live?"

Ah-hah! So you have been keeping tabs on me.

"What? It's right on your bio," he says defensively.

"Yes, you're right." I wave a dismissive hand. "And I taught five ninety-minute sessions back-to-back with my business clients."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is, but you know what teaching's like."

"I don't have to teach that many sessions every day."

"Sure, but you have to do research, labs, and publish." I consider other ways in which it's different. "No God-awful department meetings."

He nods.

"Anyway, I took the train home, during which I read most of the required reading for tomorrow's class. You know, for grad school."

"Am I keeping you from your work?" he asks, concerned. "I don't want you to have to stay up late on my account."

"No copy editing today, I'm glad to say." A wry chuckle slips past my lips. "I've read enough about ultimate tensile strength to last me a lifetime."

His gaze changes, staring straight into me, kindling a fire deep within me. "The maximum stress that a material can withstand while being stretched or pulled before breaking."

Somehow when Ian says the words, they light me right up. Damn, I wish he'd read the paper aloud. Maybe I would have paid better attention to the content rather than only the quality of the English.

"We've all learned what my ultimate tensile strength is," I say wryly.

"You are not brittle," he retorts. "You can bend, but you do not break. When life rains bullets upon you, you're like Kevlar. They may make little indentations in your armor, but your integrity isn't compromised."

My lips part. His words light my soul on fire.

"What I mean to say is..." He clears his throat. "I admire you, Sylvia. You have strong morals and values. You make your dreams become reality."

"But at what cost?"

Silence falls heavily before he responds.

"Don't look back." Ian stares at me through the screen with an intense gaze. "Don't long for all the things that might have been. Don't chastise yourself for the decisions you've made."

For a moment, his words render me silent.

"Appreciate all those little indentations that make you who you are," he says with a tender expression. "And remember your superpower."

"What superpower?"

"Let yourself dream again." A tender smile crosses his features. "Focus that intense drive of yours on the future like you used to do."

He's right. For so long, I've been living in survival mode. One foot in front of the other. So stuck in this nightmare that I can't see any other way forward.

"You're free now," he says, "to make better choices that will make you truly happy."

For a moment, I let my mind take me wherever it wants to go. Right now? It wants to be in Boston, beside him. But can I leave everything behind?

"Yeah...you're right."

He folds his hands upon his desk. "What will you do after we stop talking?"

Shaking my head out of my reverie, I say, "It's late here, so I'll read a book in bed if I have time and fall asleep."

"You still love reading?" he says in his classic half-question, half-statement.

"The day I stop reading, call the coroner."

A faint chuckle. "Do you remember when I used to read to you?"

My heart jumps. "Yes, I loved that."

"We could do that again," he says in a gentle tone. "Tonight. Before bed. If you want."

"How?"

"Prop your laptop on your nightstand, if you have one," he suggests. "And allow me to lull you to sleep with the book of your choice."

"What if you don't have it?"

"Then I'll buy it." He pretends to drop his jaw. "Oh, no! Not another book."

"What if you don't like the book I choose?"

"Unlikely, but I'll deal with it."

"What if I make you read Ayn Rand?"

"We have some things in common," he says, referring probably to their shared admiration of rationality and atheism.

"John Stuart Mill, liberal socialist extraordinaire?"

"I wouldn't mind," he says without hesitation. "I don't have to agree with a philosopher to read their work. In fact, it's more interesting if I don't."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the many reasons why I still love Ian Caruso.

"What about something mundane?" I tease him. "Like a trashy vampire novel?"

"Gothic fiction has its benefits." He curls his lip. "It can serve as an inspiration for drawing. Besides, I like seeing you smile, so if it makes you happy, that's good enough for me."

"Okay...here's one. Fifty Shades of Grey." I laugh. "No way would you read that novel aloud to me."

He quirks a brow. "Would you read Fifty Shades of Grey?"

"No, but I might want you to read it aloud," I say, unable to hide a grin.

"Why might that be, Ms. O'Shea?" His voice takes on that gravelly edge. "Do you want me to whisper forbidden thoughts in your ear?"

"What if I do?" I say, half-kidding, half-serious.

"Maybe we should make our own stories like we used to," he says with a pointed stare. "Let me decide what naughty thoughts I'll say to you."

A flurry of butterflies erupts in my stomach, but I try to hide it.

"Watch yourself, Professor Caruso." He inhales deeply when I call him by his title. "You don't want me to get feisty, do you?"

"I quite enjoyed it when you got feisty a couple of weeks ago."

My cheeks flush crimson. "I'm sorry about that, Ian."

"Don't be," he says with even more roughness in his tone. "I wasn't."

"You weren't?"

"Only sorry when you left," he says. "But I understand. It was all too intense. All of a sudden. Perhaps we should go more slowly."

"What if I don't want to go slowly?" I ask in a sultry tone. "What if I ran away because it scared me how much I wanted you? How soon all the old feelings came pouring back?"

"You can set the pace," he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

"But what if I'm going too fast for you?" I ask warily.

"I've waited eight years," he says. "I don't think it's humanly possible for you to go too fast for me."

"What if I did that thing on the couch?" I ask, testing the boundaries. "You remember? Our first intimate moment?"

A wry smile crosses his lips. "You can't scare me away, Sylvia. As long as the desire comes from you, I want to see whatever you want to show me."

"What would you have done if I hadn't stopped?" I ask. "A few weeks ago, I mean?"

He never wavers. "What we used to do, remember?"

"You mean when we lay beside each other on the bed?" I whisper.

"I'd watch you while you watched me," he says in a firm tone. "And you would tell me everything you wanted me to do to you once we got married."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

The words slip past my lips before I can hold them back. "Why is imagining so much better than reality?"

But he doesn't get offended. "Because you prefer fucking me in your mind, not with your body."

I draw a sharp breath. Not because he's sworn but because he's right.

Only I never realized it before.

"There is no shame in that," he says. "If you wanted, I would hold you from behind, your back against my chest. You remember?"

I nod, breathless. And I close my eyes, picturing it.

"I would cradle you in my arms while we shared our stories." His rough voice scratches an itch deep inside the deepest recesses of my mind. "And you would let go in my arms. Do you remember?"

A sharp exhale slips from my lips. "Yes..."

"Those moments when I slipped into your fantasy?" he says. "They ruined me. All sex after that was...an afterthought for me. All I wanted was to feel you tremble and shake. Your nails, digging into my skin. Your head pressed up against my chest. We would imagine every touch, every sound, every detail."

My eyes flash open and catch him staring at me like a man starved. "God, Ian!"

He draws himself straight. "Too much?"

"No, don't stop."

"Lie on the bed," he demands. "Show me."

"What, right now?"

"If you wish," he breathes. "But you're also beautiful with your eyes closed, your lips open as you think of us being together."

"I'm not ready to show you just yet," I say. "I'd like to wait for that kind of passion for a little while longer."

He nods with a gentle smile. "Then we'll wait. Let the anticipation build all the more."

Once I'm divorced, I won't hesitate to show him how much I feel. Until then, we need to make sure this isn't a passing flame. That we can rekindle the depth of feeling we felt before. In every way. Not just sex.

Now that it's past midnight, I can't suppress a yawn.

"Sorry. Five-thirty alarm." My eyelids droop, I'm so tired. "Means I can't be the night owl I'm meant to be. But I'm too excited to sleep."

He raises a quizzical brow.

"Not like that!" I say before admitting, "Okay, maybe a little like that, but right now I need something else."

"Anything."

"Read to me," I say. "Whatever you're reading at the moment."

He furrows his brow. "Not sure you'd be interested. I'm re-reading The Hobbit right now."

"Are you kidding? I love fantasy, you know that."

"Thought it might be too familiar."

"That's part of the joy of it." I carry my laptop over to my nightstand. "Just wait until I get into my PJs, and you can start reading."

He stares right into the camera, deep into my soul. "As you wish..."

My heart leaps out of my chest when he quotes The Princess Bride.

Wait a minute—?

But I let it go. We've shared enough of our feelings for one day, and I don't want to push him too far.

Out of the view of the camera, I get ready for bed. Then I crawl under the covers and listen while Ian lulls me to sleep with a story we both know and love.

___

Word count: 2,016
Total word count: 28,216/40,000