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“I checked for blood.” Apparently my threshold for celebration is lower than hers. Her shoulders come up and she laughs, silently, looking at me like I’m kidding, and laughs harder when she realizes I’m serious.
I don’t even know what to do with myself. We have a giant house, a river, food and games and movies in the middle of nowhere, basically everyone’s dream vacation. But more than anything, I just want more time alone with Carey.
“Want to take the car and go for a drive?” I ask.
Her eyes light up. “Hell yes.”
The gravel crunches under our shoes. In my mind, we’ll be driving around winding dirt roads, hugging the curve of the tall green grasses that race alongside the river. In my mind, we’ll have music playing, windows down. Carey will be singing, eyes closed, her arm out the window, fingers dancing in the wind.
In reality, we don’t ever get that far. I’ve driven a quarter of a mile down the road when I feel her hand on my leg at the same moment I start to brake for a stop sign. The second she touches me, my leg tenses and I hit the brake harder than I planned. We both jerk forward and then back, coming to a silent, abrupt stop.
Turning to look at her, I see that same clarity in her eyes she had after the Boulevard event, but this time it’s lacking the panic just beneath the surface. Her expression is open, hungry. This time, she doesn’t have to tell me what to do.
I lean in and feel the hit of adrenaline the second her mouth touches mine and she lets out the sweetest moan in relief. It is emotion in sound, the direct translation of what I’m feeling, too. My hands come to her face, her hands land carefully on my biceps, and I’m cursing the hell out of us for starting this a quarter of a mile down the road instead of in close proximity to one of the house’s ten spare bedrooms.
I reach to the side, flipping my seat back. With her lower lip trapped in her teeth, she smiles at me, climbing onto my lap. Her smile turns to a growl when she settles over where I’m hard, and I like this version of her. I like how unapologetically greedy she is with me like this. I lean back against the seat, thinking, Take whatever the hell you want.
Lifting her soft cotton skirt, I savor the heat of her legs under my hands. I love the little sounds she makes, how impatient she is with her touch and bite. Her hands dig in my hair and up under my shirt. She takes her time and doesn’t grow self-conscious when she struggles with the buttons on my jeans, doesn’t hide from me when she’s exploring my chest with her trembling fingertips.
We undress just enough—for crying out loud, we’re in fading daylight, but it’s enough—and it seems like we’ve been here for two minutes and two years, like we’ve always been here, and she’s smiling down at me, holding me and the condom from my wallet in her hand, and then we’re moving together with our eyes open, laughing into each other’s mouths.
“What are we even doing?” she whispers.
“Sex,” I whisper back. “I think people call this sex.”
Her laugh is a joyful burst against my lips, and I honestly think I’ve never felt this kind of lightness in my entire life, this much optimism. Maybe it’s a release of stress, or maybe it’s the absurdity of what we’re doing—making love in a car at a stop sign in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe it’s that I’m falling in love with her, and as she moves over me, I know for sure we can find a way out of this, and at the very least we can find a way through it together.
Her skin is soft cream under my hands. I feel the way the blood heats it as she moves, can hear her breaths turn into sound and her sounds turn into tight, hungry silence, and then she’s cupping my neck, biting at my lower lip, growing frantic until she’s falling into pleasure and dragging me right along with her. I would follow her anywhere.
With her eyes closed, she presses her forehead to mine, catching her breath. “I needed that.”
“I needed it, too.” I kiss a path up her neck. “But I also really wanted it.”
She kisses me for that, and it turns into a smile. “Your answer was better.”
“They can both be true.”
Carey sits up, pressing her hands to my stomach. “Is it going to be weird when we get home?”
I groan, imagining the obliterating relief of sleeping in my own bed. “I think it’s going to be blissful to be home.”
She pinches me, lightly. “You know what I mean.”
