He catches me. “Whoa there.” Nate pulls back, and an embarrassing mewling sound escapes from somewhere in my throat. His grip on my waist tightens in response. He pauses, his breath as ragged as mine.
Nate’s hands slide up my legs. I will them to keep going and press myself even more firmly against him. His fingers halt as if in question, and I let out a shivery “Yes.”
His fingers skate along the edge of my suit before pushing it aside. His fingers move over me and into me. Circling the perfect spot over and over. I cling to him as the heat builds in my core. Pressing my face to his chest, I let out a sharp cry as the first orgasm I’ve had in front of someone else in years rips through me. So fast, so unexpected, in a burst. Exactly the way I laugh in his presence—with total freedom. As if no one’s watching. I’m so startled by it, I actually let out a quiet, watery laugh.
He smiles, laughs a little against me as he lowers me to the cot under the window. I perch at the edge, feeling nervous for reasons I can’t say, vulnerable and needing him against me again to make me feel steady. I pull him by his waistband toward me, and he hovers over me, his mouth returning to mine as I hurriedly unbutton his drenched shorts.
“Wait,” he says. Stands me back up. “Turn around,” he whispers. Then I feel him gently move my sticky, wet hair off my back and over my shoulder. Feel his fingers carefully untying the neck string of my bikini. I let the top slide off, and he drags his fingers down my sides to the waist of the bikini bottoms. With a quick tug, they’re off too.
When I turn to face him, I suddenly realize that while I’ve slept with other men before, I don’t know if I have ever feltthisnaked with someone. Or this wholly myself.
There’s an artlessness to the way Nate’s mouth trails along my skin as if he’s trying to touch as much of it as quickly as possible, laying me back onto the cot. My back arches without meaning to, like my body needs his.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure.”
And then we’re joined together, and it’s as seamless as swimming in the lake. We move in tandem, skin against skin, and Nate’s mouth has returned to that same spot on my neck. His hand reaches between us to touch me, and I don’t care that my hair is a tangled, lake-drenched mess, or that my dress and shoes are somewhere in the dirt on a distant shore. I am totally untethered. Released. Free.
24
BY MORNING,I’M FRAZZLEDfrom all the tossing and turning, and my hair is a frayed mess once again. Even worse than usual, actually. Even from inside this stuffy storage room, I can tell it’s going to be another hot day, and there’s a humidity to the air that makes everything feel heavy—and does nothing for my disastrous hair situation.
My phone is full of sweet birthday texts already, which I do not have the focus to reply to right now. I lie back on the air mattress, replaying last night in my mind. How afterward, I could barely get the still-damp bikini back on, and we both practically peed ourselves laughing about it. Nate asked me to stay over, and I wanted more than anything to just get back into the tiny cot and lie there entangled in his arms… But the very real possibility of everyone finding out the next day that we hooked up was starting to set in.It would be way too embarrassing to be caught!I insisted, and that quieted him. Then I had to race home half naked and sneak upstairs to my makeshift bedroom like a guilty teenager. My running shoes are still somewhere over by the rope swing.
Still, last night was… incredible. Like something out of a dream. Far more romantic than anything they could cook up onLovedBy. Because it was raw, and messy, and real. And it didn’t feel like just two “friends” messing around.
That’s what scares me the most.
“Hey, Birthday Girl!” Emma chirps as soon as I video call her.
I groan in response.
“Is it that bad?” Emma asks. She’s out of breath, brushing strands of auburn hair out of her face and clearly running on a treadmill.
I let out a tiny sob as an answer.
“Nikki? Nikki!” Emma slows to a walk. I feel some tears forming, and I know she’s shocked because of how rarely she—or anyone—sees me like this.
“I don’t know what I’ve done,” I say.
She looks me straight in the eyes. “What’s going on, and do you need me? Is it an emergency? If you need me, I can be there.”
It’s such an extreme reaction, and I love her for it, for how at-the-ready she always is. It’s why I called her instead of going to the group chat. Willow’s the one you call for some spiritual wisdom—or a question about a tantric sex position. Sybil’s the one you call when you need a getaway car, or a great distraction, or to borrow something skimpy and sparkly. But Emma’s the one you seek out when you need someone to take over and give you a five-point strategic action plan for whatever your problems are.
“No, no. Don’t go to any trouble. It’s not an emergency,” I assure her. “I’m fi—”
“Nikki,” she says, using her stern voice. “Donotsay you’re fine. Okay? Just tell me what’s really going on with you.”
I feel a lump forming in my throat. I try to sigh, to clear more space to talk. Where do I even start? “I’m going back onLovedBy,” I say.
Emma’s silent on the other end of the line. Which I know must be killing her.
“You can say it,” I prompt.
“Niks… are you… are you sure that’s a good idea?”
It’s a softer reaction than I’d expect from the woman who hurled a burrito at Aaron’s head after he broke my heart.
