He feigned a wince, then seemed to relent. “If you must.” He yanked her down to the bed. His smile curved against her mouth, then he was kissing her, slow and hot, like he was content to have her exactly like this all night long—soft and pliant and desperate for him.
“I want to take my time,” he said.
But suddenly it all felt so urgent. The summer had only just begun, and she was already dreading its end. What they had meant something, and she wanted to experience every bit of it while she still could.
She shook her head. She was done holding back. “I want to be all those things to you, too,” she said.While I still get to be, she thought
“Lainey.” He said her name like it meant everything that was unspoken between them. And maybe it did, she thought, as they shed the rest of their clothes and let their five-star meal go cold.
“Hey.”
It was a whisper early in the morning. Part of her dream, she imagined. Her body curled into the mass of pillows and the warm, perfect shape to which she was beginning to become familiar.
“You’re going to miss it,” the voice repeated.Elliot’s voice, she realized. Of course it was Elliot’s.
That was when the jostling started. “Elainnneeee.”
“Stop, you tyrant!” she groaned, but the pillow muffled most of it.
“You’re missing it.”
She covered her head with a sheet. An expensive, high-thread-count sheet, which tipped her off that she might not be in her bed.The Groff Retreat, she remembered.
“Did I oversleep? Are they kicking us out?” she asked through a yawn.
“No, we have plenty of time, and we can go back to sleep after this, but look.” He pointed to the windows on the other side of their bed. “See how the window is slightly curved?” She nodded. “That’s so the building follows the movement of the sun throughout the day. The natural light will spread and expand, warming up the whole room. It’s one of his earliest forms of sustainable design.”
From the moment she’d met him, she’d been stealing pieces of him she wasn’t sure she’d get to keep. Sweet Elliot. Feisty Elliot. Generous Elliot. But this one, curious and passionate Elliot, was one of her favorites.
He looked over at her, bare chested and smudged lenses, like he’d pushed his glasses up his nose haphazardly seconds before waking her. A blush spread from his neck into his cheeks. “Sorry.” He rubbed a knot in his shoulder self-consciously. “You probably wanted to sleep.”
“No. Not at all.” She sat up and leaned the back of her head to his chest so they were both facing the window. “Tell me more,” she egged on, giving him the same curiosity about his interests he’d always given her.
“The clerestory—the carvings at the very top. Right now, they’re crisp, but during the course of the day, it will give off a stippling effect that’ll look like light poking through leaves. It’s supposed to make the interior feel more harmonious with the exterior.”
“Interesting.” She nodded the back of her head into him. “What else you got?”
“On the windows? Not much else.” He kissed the crown of her head. “You can go back to sleep…” His lips drifted down to the top of her shoulder as his fingers played with the strap of her tank top. “If you want.” His other hand slipped under the sheet.
She squirmed beside him. “You are sending a very mixed message, sir.”
“Am I?” he asked, the portrait of innocence.
She flipped over and slung a thigh over his hips so she was straddling him. No confusion there.
She could feel his smile against her lips and taste herself on his tongue from only hours before. “It’s never been like this for me. I’ve never felt…I can’t imagine…” He didn’t finish, becoming preoccupied with removing her camisole. “I don’t know how I’ll let you go.”
Ask me to stay, she thought. But her mouth couldn’t form the words. It was better this way. If he asked her to stay, she probably would. She’d give up everything. Every dream for herself that had started to take shape in her heart. She’d empty herself out until she was nothing but a clear vessel of only his smile and his laugh and the crease between his eyebrows. Right then, she’d let herself disappear into him if he asked, and she didn’t want that for herself anymore.
“I’m not sure how I’ll go,” she whispered, too quiet for him to hear.
Chapter 18
In the Pope’s Room of Buca di Beppo
11 Days until the Longest Day of the Year
When her carfinally met its maker, it was with a whimper, not a bang.
