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He covers me with kisses, finds my mouth, and keep us together as he moves inside me, doing the work. Every thrust keeps me pinned against the wall. Every little brush of his thumb sends me full-force toward the edge of existence.
He knows it. He knows how to grind against me, over and over, harder and harder and I’m telling him I love him. I don’t know when I started. It might have just been in my head at first, but it’s repeated over and over again until it comes to life between us, the words sealing us together.
“I love you,” I say again, right before my eyes pinch closed and my toes curl. My thighs grip his and my heels dig into his back and I’m lost to the waves racking through me.
“Whitney,” he moans, sounding as if he’s in pain.
I’m killing him. I am. He’s pumping so hard and his face is buried deep in my neck. His sweat clings to me and then I feel him come too. It’s so all-consuming I fear we’ve lost ourselves in it. We don’t exist anymore. At least not the way we did before tonight.
I kiss his cheek as he catches his breath. I comfort him like he’s comforted me so much this evening. My arms cling to his neck, and without a word, he carries us into the bathroom and turns on the shower. I’m set down on the bench and he leans over me, hands resting on either side of my hips.
Our eyes are at the same level when he blinks those brown eyes and tells me simply, “I love you too.”Chapter Twenty-FourDerekI consider asking Whitney to marry me while we split the chocolate milkshake room service delivered after our shower. I’m tempted to just blurt it out with no preamble. No ring. A casual inquiry into whether or not she’d enjoy spending the rest of her life as my wife. Till death do us part. The urge intensifies when she leans over and steals a bite of the burger I have poised in front of my mouth. She’s greedy about it, taking too much and smiling mischievously while she wipes the ketchup from her lips.
Marry me, will you?
I nearly ask the question again later, in the middle of the night, when I wake up and scoot down the bed, tugging her t-shirt up and over her stomach so I can press kisses up her thighs, barely visible in the dark.
I spread them and she laughs and says, “What a way to wake up,” as my head dips between her legs.
I hold Whitney’s hand in mine on the way to her parents’ apartment in the morning. I look down at her ring finger and try to imagine what size she wears. 2? 10? I have no idea. I’ve never gifted a ring to a significant other.
I make a mental note to ask Carrie.
“Could you pull over right here?” Whitney asks suddenly.
She has the tone and sheer-panicked look of someone who’s about to be sick. Once the car has swerved over to the curb, she leaps out, tells the hired driver to give her “ten seconds”, and disappears into a donut shop.
I know she’s nervous to confront her parents, and I wouldn’t put it past her to bolt like she did last night. When her ten seconds have passed and then some, the driver looks back at me as if I’ll have answers for him.
She’s a mystery to me too, man. Sorry.
That’s when Whitney finally emerges again, carrying an unmarked white pastry box. I assumed she was running for the bakery’s restroom, but it appears she was buying a peace offering in the form of fried dough.
She slides back into the car and we all inhale deeply. That smell should be bottled up and sold.
“Thanks for waiting for me,” she tells the driver. “Want one?”
A few minutes later, we pull up outside her parents’ building and the driver waves us off with his half-eaten bear claw, assuring us he’ll wait right here for us to return.
We take the stairs slowly. She stops multiple times, turns around, takes a half-flight back down, mutters to herself that this is a stupid idea, suggests we leave the donuts outside a random apartment and leave.
“Like this nice lady. Look, she keeps a vase of flowers by her door. I bet she likes donut holes.”
I catch up to her, spin her in the right direction, and nudge her forward.
“If nothing else, you need to get your luggage,” I point out.
“Do I? Because you said we’re flying first class on the way home and I’m pretty sure they give you those little slippers and a robe.”
“Only for international flights.”
“Crap. No slippers?”
She seems really upset about it.
“But we’ll get other complimentary stuff, right?” she prods as I half-push, half-carry her up the stairs. “A warm hand towel?”
