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I brush her hair out of her face. Of course she’d want to feed me. Enjoy a little cocktail hour together. I usually don’t do date-type stuff with my hookups, like share a meal. But the idea of Greer leaving right now is unappealing in the extreme. In fact, I don’t want her to leave my room at all. They have room service here, right?
She takes such good care of me. I also like to take care of her. The reciprocity is . . . unexpected. And excellent.
I’m getting addicted to it. I mean. First head, then nap, then sex, then chocolate and whiskey in bed?
Best Saturday ever.
“Perfect.”
“I’ll grab—”
“I’ll grab it. You relax. Here, I’m going to roll you off of me. Slow, sweetheart, I’m worried you’re gonna be really sore now.”
I try to pull out of her gently, but she still winces as she falls onto her side.
Reaching between her legs, I softly run my fingers over her slit. I draw them back out. “No more blood. But do you want another dose of Advil?”
“Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose. “I feel like the whiskey might help too.”
“Stay there.”
I clean up in the bathroom. Throw on a pair of shorts. Then I pour us each a couple fingers of whiskey in the short glasses set out on the minibar. Greer brought the pretzels to my room after breakfast, so I grab them off the chest of drawers by the closet.
“Hey.” Greer frowns at my shorts. “If you’re getting dressed—”
“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t want you putting on clothes for the rest of the weekend.” I hand her the Advil and the whiskey.
She sits up and takes them. My eyes immediately fall to her bare chest and stomach. I feel a stab of desire.
“Don’t we have a symposium to go to?” she asks. “And meals? And the spa?”
“Not if I feel like fucking you instead.”
Dropping the pills into her mouth, Greer raises a brow. “Not if I feel like fucking you.”
“Just tell me how you want to do it, sweetheart,” I say with a smirk. The mattress dips as I climb into bed beside her. I lean down and suck a nipple into my mouth.
She pants. Laughs. Runs her fingers through my hair. “I need you to stop making me so damn horny. It, like, actually hurts right now.”
I snap my head up. Stomach turning over. “That was too much. You being on top—”
“Stop.” She takes my face in her hand. “You did everything exactly right. I had no idea what I was missing. If I had known sex was this good—”
“It’s only this good with me, sweetheart.” I tap my glass against hers.
She kisses me, quick and hard. Then releases my face. “I’m glad I have you to learn from, then.”
She sips her whiskey. I sip mine. Fire slides down my throat, making the contented hum in my blood rush a little louder.
I hold out the chocolate covered pretzels to her. She takes one, rustling the little paper cups they’re in, and pops it into her mouth.
“How’d you get so good at that, by the way?” she asks. “Not the sex. Well, not necessarily. But the knowing.”
I put a pretzel in my mouth. “Knowing what?”
“Knowing that I haven’t been getting what I want. Or need. More than that, you give a shit. You care about what I need, and you push me to say it out loud. I guess I’m curious as to why you care so much. Especially about me of all people.”
The pretzel’s salty-sweet combination melts on my tongue, delicious and achingly familiar.
Before, just smelling these things would send me over the edge. It almost did when I grabbed Greer this morning. That’s part of the reason why I grabbed her, I guess. Because I was overwhelmed and I just . . . adored her. For thinking of me and of Lizzie. For putting my sister’s memory in a context that didn’t suck.
Just like she’s doing now, without even knowing it. Probably why I’m not spiraling.
Something about Greer’s presence puts the demons in my head to bed.
I still miss my sister. So damn much. But for the first time, missing her doesn’t feel like it’s going to kill me. Maybe because Greer makes me feel like I’m not alone in it—the pain. The misery of loss.
Life feels lighter with her because she’s shouldering its weight alongside me by giving a damn herself.
“Lizzie—my sister—she never told me what she needed,” I say carefully around a mouthful of chocolate. “She never told anyone she was struggling, and no one ever asked. Including me. So she turned to shit she shouldn’t have to cope, and then she overdosed. And now she’s gone.”
Greer reaches over and swipes her thumb along the edge of my lips. “Tell me about her.”
I haven’t talked about Lizzie—really talked about her—outside of my therapist’s office. Not to anyone.
