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To be mine until the end of time.
* * *
An hourand a half and six slices of pizza later, we’re sprawled across her couch. Her legs are over my thigh and my foot presses against her ribs. A movie is playing on the television in the corner, but I’m not paying attention to it.
I’m too busy listening to Lacey tell me about her childhood. Too busy watching her use her hands to gesture wildly about the dog she had growing up, the golden retriever her parents said went to a farm and never came home. Too busy smiling at her stories about her imaginary friend Kevin when she was six years old.
I could listen to her talk for hours.
“What?” she asks. She rests her head in her palm and looks at me from across the couch. It’s almost pitch black in the room except for the lamp bathing her face in colors of yellow and gold. She looks like a pretty angel. “You’re staring at me.”
“Just…” I take a breath, and there’s a pull in my gut. A twist in my chest the longer she looks at me. It’s warm and pleasant. Dizzyingly so. I want her to keep looking at me and to never stop. “You,” I say, and I gesture up and down her body. “You,” I repeat, and it sounds more important the second time.
Lacey swallows, and I track the bob of her throat. Her eyes soften and she reaches out for me. Her fingertips graze my palm, a gentle touch that has me wanting to beg for more. “Can I hold you?” she whispers, and my soul nearly splits in two.
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice dips with the single syllable. “Yes. Please. I’d like that.”
The pizza box gets pushed to the side. I pull off my hoodie and she adjusts the pillows. We maneuver around the couch until she’s stretched out longways and I’m settled between her thighs. My back rests against her chest, and her arms drape over my shoulders. I’m locked in place, but I’m not planning on running anywhere.
I hum, content and comfortable. I can feel Lacey’s heartbeat, a staccato rhythm that starts to slow when I settle in her arms. Mine starts to slow too, like I reached the top of a mountain and I’m finally going down the other side.
That’s exactly what Lacey does for me; she reminds me life isn’t always an uphill climb. Eventually the hard things get easy, a steady descent I can take at my own pace.
“This is nice,” she says, her voice low in my ear. She kisses my cheek, and I move my head so I can kiss her lips. “Kissing you is nice.”
“It’s not supposed to be nice,” I say against her mouth. I reach up and hook my arm around her neck to bring her closer to me. “It’s supposed to be better than nice.”
“You just want me to compliment you.”
“Flirting with me, Daniels?”
“In your dreams, Holmes,” she says, but she kisses me again.
This feels an awful lot like heaven.
I don’t need anything else.
Her tongue swipes across my mouth and my lips part to welcome her in. She sighs, a sound I want to hear her make again. I run my thumb down the curve of her jaw and over the slope of her cheek. She’s warm under my touch, all soft skin and soft lines.
I haven’t just made out with anyone in years, and I like doing it with her. My teeth sink into her bottom lip and I smile when she whimpers. When she pulls on the tufts of my hair to tell me she wants more.
I untangle our limbs and flip over so I’m hovering above her. My knees rest on either side of her hips, and she looks up at me with wonder painted on her face.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, and it’s an admission—a fact—I won’t be allowed to say soon. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, Lacey.”
Her fingers dance up my arms and to my neck. Tenderness glimmers in her eyes, and it seems like there’s something on the tip of her tongue. Something hangs between us, a realization that this is different than the other times we’ve kissed.
Those moments were hurried and frenzied, a desperate need to touch and lick and taste. Slick slides of skin and my hands under her dress. My fingers buried deep inside her. Down her shirt.
But not right now.
She lifts off the couch and meets me halfway. Her hands cup my cheeks and her nose brushes against mine.
“Maybe I am flirting with you,” she says, and it sounds like she’s telling me a secret. “Just a little, because I’ve never felt more beautiful than I do when I’m with you.”
I should ask her about the end date we set for ourselves. Maybe we can push it to Valentine’s Day or stretch it out to Memorial Day. Fuck, maybe we can make it a year and celebrate Christmas together next year, too.
When she lifts her hips and pins them against mine, I want to ask her to marry me.
