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“Then find a place to hide and remember it until you start believing me,” I say. “And it’s okay. My parents can wait.”
She exhales. Then, slowly, she shifts her weight and kisses me.
* * *
MARIA
* * *
I’m not sure if I’m kissing Jay because I want to, or because I couldn’t bear to hear him talk any more. Truth is no matter what I say, there is part of me that still doesn’t understand how we’re here—how Jay is the person I’m slowly beginning to trust. Trust scares me.
I know how to care for other people. I know that far too well. It’s hard to let them care for me in return.
We feel like mismatched puzzle pieces—no matter how we kiss, I’m not sure we can ever come close enough.
But we can try. He stands up and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close.
I want to forget my own memories.
His fingers drag down the side of my cheek and a flare of desire wakes in me. It’s bright, so bright that it almost drowns out the core of doubt that won’t let go. The catch of my breath, the slow slide of his mouth against mine—they aren’t enough to replace all my fears, but they’re enough to pretend.
Maybe I’ll forget. Maybe I can hide in our kiss.
Maybe he wants me to forget as much as I do, because our mouths meld. His hands slide down my waist. His fingers hook in the band of my skirt.
“Hey, Em.” His voice is low. I open my eyes. He’s looking at me, his face inches from mine. His irises are brown and gold against a ring of black. He rubs his nose against mine, and as he does, his hand presses into the small of my back.
“Hi, Jay.” My voice is fluttering. My chest beats with an uncertain rhythm. I feel like my lungs are hollow, waiting to be filled by his kiss.
He kisses me again, this time harder. More. My mouth opens, and I taste him—smoke and salt and a hint of sweetness. Just a kiss, but I can feel the tension between us. The desire, caged and held back, the hesitation.
I don’t know if it’s his or mine.
I don’t know what the future will hold. But the wavering beat of my heart is timed to the rhythm of his breath, and it’s scary and comforting all at the same time.
“Did you ever read A Wrinkle in Time?” I ask.
“No.” His face is close to mine. His fingers slide along my waist.
“You haven’t read anything. It was my favorite book in fourth grade. It was the center of my existence, and all because of the tesseract.”
“A four-dimensional cube?” He nods. “I love extra-dimensional geometry.”
“No. That was a jumping-off point. It was used as a sort of five-dimensional wormhole travel.”
Jay pulls away and frowns over my shoulder. “You know, mathematically—”
“Don’t you dare nitpick the math.” I mock-glare at him, and he looks back at me. “This is not about the math. It was fifth-dimensional travel, and you could think the right way and land on the other side of the galaxy. With a tesseract, I could escape anything. In our normal three dimensions, there are walls and doors and the vastness of space between you and your heart’s desire.”
“Ah.” He doesn’t pull me closer—not physically—but he shifts, and it feels like he’s closer. More intimate. More aware.
“In our typical three dimensions, we start out with the basics. You see what someone looks like first. Then you get a name, what they do for a living.” I don’t look at him. “Sex often comes at the point when it’s still safe, when you’ve only swapped funny stories about your childhood, and not any of the real vulnerabilities.”
He exhales against my skin.
“You and I—we’ve tesseracted all the way past our most vulnerable moments,” I say. “We did this all backward—vulnerability first, names last. And now we’re all tangled together and there’s no good way out. I don’t have any real hiding places.”
He exhales. “Then I won’t hide. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I do you.”
“Oh.” His face is smooth beneath my touch—jawbone, chin, lips. I feel heavy and light at the same time. He can’t really mean it. Not the way it sounds. “Oh,” I swallow. “Say those words again.”
“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he repeats steadily. “Inside and out. Morning and night. Yesterday and tomorrow, in four dimensions, or five.” He squints. “Which is scientifically silly. Can I just specify every extra rolled-up dimension predicted by string theory?”
“Oh.” It seems a ridiculous thing to say in response to those words, but everything else I feel seems to be caught in my rib cage. “Oh.” I don’t know what to say to any of that. It’s too much. I don’t want it.
And very selfishly, I never want to give any of it up.
“Oh.” My hand is on his face. My thumb is on his lips. He turns and presses a kiss into my palm, and it sears me.
“Well.” My voice sounds foreign and strange to me. “I’m pretty sure I feel the same way.”
Something heated flares in his eyes—a bright blossom of desire. I feel naked. Vulnerable.
He takes hold of my hand—just my hand, but there’s a hunger in the grip of forefinger and thumb around my wrist.
“Come along then,” he says. He leads me to his bedroom, and this time, when he turns to me, there isn’t the slightest hint of uncertainty.
He sits on the bed and pulls me on top of him.
There’s a slight callus on the pads of his left hand, and I have no idea how he got them—writing papers likely wouldn’t do it. I don’t ask.
I take off his shirt, baring a lovely expanse of brown skin, lightly muscled biceps…
I run my fingers down his chest, down the line of his ribcage. Down his abdominal muscles.
“Oh, hell.” His hands tighten on my hips.
I undo the snap of his jeans. I know what he looks like already, but I still feel a sense of electric anticipation as I slide them off.
I can see the bar of his cock through his underwear—heavy and large and waiting for me. It takes me a moment—just a moment—to reach for the elastic band of his boxers.
To slide the blue fabric down his hips. My throat feels dry when I touch him for the first time—that firmness, the hiss of his breath. The look in his eyes.
I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.
I can’t think about that. I lean down and kiss him. Kissing him naked, on a bed, is an entirely different thing than kissing when fully clothed. I want him—every last inch of his skin, every taut curve of his muscle. Every ounce of desire I see reflected in his eyes. My nerves feel on fire. His fingers undo the buttons of my blouse, lifting it over my head.
“You’re beautiful.”
I make a noise.
“No,” he says. “That’s not the right word. ‘Striking’ was what I thought the first time I saw you. There’s something utterly compelling about you. I can’t look away. And that’s what it feels like at a distance.”
“And up close?”
“You’re made of the stuff that binds the universe together.”
“Thanks, Actual Physicist.” I exhale. “Isn’t everyone?”
He shrugs. “Sure. But I only notice it with you.”
He kisses me again, and this kiss is different still. He traces a path down my throat. He leaves little searing kisses on my collarbone. His palm cups my breast, and my nipple responds in a blaze of sensation.
He breathes in as I exhale. We shouldn’t fit so well together. I’m feeling utterly shattered as he unsnaps my bra. Presses his mouth to me. His tongue is warm, and I’m so damned sensitive, and every part of me yearns for him. My hand finds his hip. The joint, then his inner thigh.
He undoes my skirt. My panties are a pale pink, almost translucent.
“Hey, Em.”
I look at him. My hands are feeling just a little shaky.
“Hey, Em,” he says again. “You know me.”
And I do.
I know the way he slides his hands down my h
ips. The way he nudges my legs apart, catching one finger in the material of my panties. I know the way he caresses me, light at first, then leaning down, touching me with tongue and fingers, gentle and sweet and filthy all at once, letting all the feeling, all the desire build in me. I know the way he touches me, fingers dipping inside me with lubrication.
When he lifts his head, his eyes look like molten bronze. “Hey there.”
I can’t think at all when he slides inside me. Not one word, just the feel of him.
“Jay.”
“Maria.” He moves, ever so slightly. He shifts his position. And, oh god, it’s ruining me for anything or anyone else. There’s something utterly adorable about him. Maybe because he isn’t holding anything back.
Maybe because his body fits mine, stretching me. Maybe because he’s looking at me with an expression I understand.
Maybe because I have nowhere to hide, and I don’t know when that happened or what to do about it. It’s almost too sweet, the feel of his hands on my hips.
I can feel my orgasm coming—slowly, surely building with every stroke, taking over me. It washes through me with a shattering force.
“Em.” His forehead touches mine. “Em. Sweetheart.”
I’m not sure what to do with endearments. I kiss him instead. It’s easier when he starts moving again. When he’s so clearly in pursuit of his own pleasure. When he lets out a little groan, his muscles tense and spasm.
The kiss afterward is too much—too much intimacy, too much implied affection. I’m not sure what to do with my feelings, as awkward and ungainly in this room as a baby giraffe struggling to stand.
He comes back to bed after he cleans up. He slips one arm around me.
“Em,” he says.
I turn to look at him. How can I not?
“You know I really like you.”
I nod. “I…” It’s hard to say the words. “I really like you, too.”
