“No,” he says. He licks some of the whipped cream off his spoon, and my insides melt, warmth spreading through me.
The corner of his mouth ticks up.
“I’d love to go home with you,” he says.
“Great,” I croak, and he looks down at his parfait, hiding his smile behind his spoon.
23
The minute we return to our hotel room, we settle back into our earlier agreement.
No discussions about the future. About going home. About tomorrow.
There’s only this.
The rustle of fabric, the slide of skin against skin, the hitch of breath, and the weight of our bodies.
Familiar, but unrushed. As if we have nothing but time. A lie that we allow ourselves to believe.
I settle on top of him, my knees around his torso, and I take him slowly, watching him all the while. The flutter of his throat, the sudden rise and fall of his chest, the marks on either side of his nose, the smallest indentations from where his glasses were.
I lean forward, pressing my finger there.
“You should consider new glasses,” I say, my movements slow. Lazy.
He laughs, his hands coming to my waist, clutching at my sides.
“Yeah?” he says. He tilts his head up, finding my mouth, a soft brush of his lips. “Why’s that?”
“These ones hurt you,” I say. I pull back, and his eyes, which were blazing before, intense and focused, are now soft.
“I don’t mind them,” he says. “They work fine.”
I hum, but the sound turns into a gasp as he thrusts from below, no longer content with the languid pace I’ve set. His head falls back as I meet his movements, taking him deeper. Faster.
His hand travels from my waist to my stomach, farther down, applying pressure that takes me over the edge, and seconds later he follows, my name a sharp exhale out of his mouth.
When we disentangle our bodies, lying on our sides, face-to-face, my fingers rise again, tracing the bridge of his nose. “You deserve more than fine,” I say.
A wrinkle forms between his brows.
“With the glasses, I mean. If the ones you have are too tight—”
His forehead smooths out. “They’re only a little tight,” he says.
I kiss him then, unable to help it, because all of this is sohim.Practical and selfless. It’s the sort of thing he would notice about someone else, that he would rush to fix for them. But he won’t do the same for himself.
“Get new glasses, Jacob,” I tell him, mockingly stern, and he smiles. His full lips spread wide, his teeth glinting in the dim light.
“All right,” he says. “I will.” And then his mouth is back on mine.
He turns me slightly, shifting us until he’s on top, his face hovering above me. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, his thumb skimming the line of my jaw.
“You deserve more than fine too, you know,” he says. And then he shows me. With his hands, with his mouth, as he slowly makes his way down my body. Every inch of my skin comes alive, feeling worshipped at his touch.
We sleep, and wake, and pretend again. That the growing lightin the room is a figment of our imagination. That thesnickof doors closing and the low chatter in the hall is not the sound of folks going down for breakfast. That thepings on our phones are not text messages from Maggie and my father, asking what time we’re planning to leave.
But when Jacob peeks at the screen and rolls over, hiding his face in my neck, letting out a groan that vibrates under my ear, I know the illusion is over.
