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“I’m kidding,” I laugh out.
Shaking his head, he says, “I’m not willing to risk it.”
“Speaking of murders…”
“It’s such a turn-on when your girlfriend talks about killing people.” I push on his shoulder with my foot and regret it the moment he grabs hold of my ankle and then my waist, effortlessly lowering me until I’m sitting across his thighs. “Go on.”
I get comfortable in my new position and throw my arm around his neck, fingernails scratching the back of his head. He moans, drops his head between his shoulders. I say, “So I read a story this morning about this twenty-nine-year-old man who saw his dad kill his mom and bury her in their yard when he was three years old. Apparently, when she ‘disappeared,’ he told the cops his dad hurt his mom, but the cops didn’t believe him. Because, like, he’s three, right?”
He’s quiet a moment, then, “Huh.”
“And who remembers stuff like that when they’re three.”
His eyes are on mine, searching.
“Anyway,” I continue, “he moved back to that same home twenty years later and dug up the spot where he remembers seeing it and guess what?”
“They found her remains.”
I nod, lips pressed tight.
“That’s crazy.”
“I know! Imagine carrying around those memories for so many years, from when he was three.”
He swallows, looks away. “That’d be pretty horrible.”
“Right?” I exhale harshly. “Thank God you don’t remember anything from when your mom—” I cut myself off, because shit. “Sorry,” I say, my voice quiet. “I wasn’t thinking.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay.”
“No, it was insensitive,” I admit. “I just had a brain fart moment.”
“Speaking of brain farts,” he says, “what the hell were you wearing when you came over last night?”
My eyes go huge, my breath catching. I pull on his hair, ignore his screech of pain. “I was trying to make a good impression. The first time I met your dad wasn’t exactly under the best circumstances!”
“You looked like my grandma.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “You make out with your grandma?”
“I barely make out with you,” he mumbles.
“Aww.” I settle my hands on the sides of his head and make him face me. “You want to make out with me?”
“I’d like to do more than make out with you, but…” He looks around us. “Here?”
I quirk an eyebrow. “You got your car keys?”
He nods, biting down on his lip. Then he’s practically throwing me off of him and taking my hand, dragging me down the steps. I giggle the entire way to the parking lot.
Five minutes later and he has my back pressed to the inside of his car door. His mouth is on my neck, lips warm, tongue wet. His hands are everywhere, all at once. I untuck his shirt from his pants and feel the muscles on his stomach, then bring my hands to his back, clawing him closer to me. I can’t get enough, and neither can he because he whispers my name as if it’s air in his lungs. He covers my mouth again, his tongue sliding against mine, and I wish he had a bigger car, or I had a car at all because he’s too large for such a small space and I want to feel him all over me and around me, and God… inside me. My legs part when his hand slides up from my knee to my bare thigh. He pauses an inch below where I want him the most, his forehead going to my shoulder. He curses, and I look at the roof of his car, my breaths shallow. And then he covers that inch, his thumb stroking. Just once. I buck beneath his touch, and he curses again. And then he’s pulling away completely, his eyes glazed, hooded, leaving me cold and confused. He settles back in his seat, adjusting himself, his chest rising and falling. “We can’t do it like this…” he murmurs, looking at me. I adjust my clothes and sit up. “In my car? At school?” He sighs heavily.
“I know,” I whisper.
“But I want to, Ava. God, I want to do everything with you.”
“I know,” I say again.
