Page 61 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Took me by surprise, is all.” He seems to accept my words and tilts his head back to gaze up at the sky, but I’m emboldened by the wine and the black of the night to give him more of an explanation. “You’re really sweet, Vince. Too good for this world. Far too good for me.”

“What?” His head snaps back to me. Only the whites of his eyes are visible in the dark, yet I shrink under the weight of his gaze.

“I know I’m tiring. I’m tired of me, so I can imagine someone else having to deal with me is exhausting. I’m closed-off and sarcastic. And you?—”

He cuts me off by pushing me to my back, my head on a pillow, my wrists in his hands. With the skirt of my dress rucked up, he settles his hips against mine so he’s hovering over me. “Stop.”

“I—”

“You have to stop with this.”

I feel his body heat even as the air around us is hot and humid, and my skin pricks with sweat. He leans down, resting his forehead to mine, his chest hard against me, his weight solid and comforting on top of me. I bend my knees, mechanically bringing him closer, slotting him into the pocket of my open legs, and I don’t recall what I was even saying. What I have to stop.

Because I want him to keep going.

“I could never tire of you,” he says, our breaths mingling as his lips graze mine.

There is no ounce of hesitation, no conscious thought, merely wild flowers smashing through the cement for light and air. I’m alive and want to be alive with him.

Need to be alive with him.

“Vince…”

He fits his mouth against mine, tasting faintly of beer and the strawberry dessert his aunt made. I sink one of my hands into his hair while letting the other skate down his back, finding his skin underneath his T-shirt. When I scratch my nails across the muscles on either side of his spine, he hisses his pleasure and drags his lips across my jaw, the stubble of his five-o’clock shadow scraping me in return.

I can’t get enough of it.

Of his roaming hands and fingers on my waist, my breasts, my throat. Or the way he sucks on my pulse point and I arch my back, inviting him to take more. He does, leaning on his side to slide his fingertips along the inside of my thigh, taking the soft cotton I’m wearing with it, revealing my thin underwear.

And that’s when the first firework is loosed, exploding over us, and I flinch involuntarily.

“You’re okay,” he reminds me, and I nod even though it wasn’t a question. Because whenever I’m with him, I’m always okay.

Then he lowers his mouth to my ear so I can hear him breathing over the booms and pops above us, the bright blues and whites and greens lighting up the sky enough that I can see how the veins in his throat and arms stand out starkly in shadow. He’s so strong and sure, and I want to be like him, give in to him. Ask him to make me whole again.

But I don’t. Instead, I release a moan that only he can hear, our desires protected from the outside world by the celebrations above and below us.

But, Vince and I, we’re celebrating life in a whole other way.

“I need to feel you,” he says, nipping at the skin of my throat, and I place my hand over his, guiding it to slip underneath my damp panties. I inhale sharply at the first tender slide of his fingers against my sensitive flesh, and when I start to lift my hands to dig them into his shoulders, he shakes his head, catching one and then the other, raising them above my head. He holds my wrists in one hand then tugs slightly, pulling me taut like a bowstring. My nipples are tight, my breasts heavy, and he dips his head down, kissing the curve of them and then up my throat. “Let me take care of you.”

He’s been taking care of me for months now, and there is no better feeling in the world than giving in to him. So I do.

“Please,” I whimper, and his hold on my wrists tightens as he sinks his other hand back below my underwear.

I’m wet, I can feel it, and he groans when he does too. “You don’t know,” he starts, his lips whispering against my collarbone as two thick fingers pet and prod me open. “You don’t know how sweet you are.”

“I’m not.” I sigh when he strokes those fingers inside me. “I’m not sweet.”

“You are.” He shifts, raising his head over me, his eyes black pools, even with the bursting colors above us. “You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known, delicate and soft. I’ve always known, always saw it in you, no matter how you try to hide it.”

My eyes and nose burn, and I lift my head, closing the distance between us to kiss him, forcing him to stop talking with my teeth and tongue, but he smiles against my mouth and slowly drags his fingers in and out of my sex, torturing me until I’m writhing beneath him.

Only then does he tend to where I’m most sensitive as he nips my earlobe. I involuntarily clamp my knees tighter at the onslaught of sensation, and he sinks down farther, finally releasing my wrists. Although with the quick pinch of them against the rough shingles, I know he wants me to keep them there, so I do.

He rewards me by cupping my breast through my dress, sweeping his thumb back and forth over my peaked nipple. He licks and sucks across my throat, edging my legs back open with his elbow before pressing and circling harder against my clit. “You’re sweet here too. Tight and hot, but you’ve got to let me in.” He smooths his hand up my throat, over my jaw and cheek, curling his fingers into my hair, holding me. And thank Zeus because I think I might break into pieces.

He draws the tip of his nose down mine then kisses me again, prying soft sounds from the back of my throat. “Let me in, and I’ll take care of you.”

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