Page 67 of Her Pretty Words

He frees himself from his boxer briefs, moving them down his legs, then kicking them away. “This is what you want?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolling the condom on and lining himself against me. His eyes search mine for permission, to which I smile and pull him down so his lips are against mine. I kiss him as I lift my hips, a gasp escapes the both of us when he starts to fill me.

I think of that magical moment when you take off in an airplane. When the future is a blank canvas of possibilities. When I left Idaho, I never imaginedthis. Grayson is a dream I never once dared to hope for. Because hope is dangerous, it leaves you vulnerable to a world of hurt if it never comes true. He’s everything I always deemed as fiction. But he’s real. He’s my fairytale come to life.

Mine.He’s mine.

He slowly fills me all the way, gazing at me as if I’m his too. We come together, and he cups my face. His thumb touches my lips, so I kiss the soft pad. His eyes darken when I suck the digit into my mouth, swirling my tongue around it.

“You have no idea—” he starts, then buries his face between my neck and shoulder. “How long I’ve waited for you.”

My thoughts swirl, I can’t grasp a single one to understand what he means. Everything in my mind parts like a sea until Grayson is at the very center, and it hits me like stars aligning.

I’ve landed in that wishing well to find I am inescapably in love with him. There’s no rope out, only the one tying us together. I want to live and die here.

I am in love with Grayson.

Words don’t leave my lips, but I send every feeling of love through that invisible rope between us, and suddenly it feels as if I’m on fire, those blue flames flashing over me. I bare my heart to him. I let him fill every inch of me. My mind, body, and soul.

I don’t want this to end.I press my hand against his chest, and he pulls out of me, eyes burning with wonder. I push him so he’s on his back and then straddle him. His eyes are ping ponging between my face and the place he disappears inside me.

His lips are beautifully parted, and suddenly I wish I was an artist so I could capture the look on his face. I would paint the way his eyes seem to shine yet darken at once. Like night and day in a duel. The way his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is wild, flying every which way. I’ve made him look so unkept. I would name the painting “Unveiling his Final Mask.”

I pour everything I feel into the rhythm of my hips. His gaze drips over me like a soft rainfall. “I can’t last much longer with you moving like that,” he says through his teeth like he’s pained.

Burning light takes over my vision until I’m blinded by it, caught in a wave so strong I might never break the surface. It’s pure ecstasy. My moans are faraway. His movements beneathme become jerky. That wave slowly eases me to shore, until I’m washed up, trying to catch my breath. Grayson’s chest is heaving like mine, and I slowly pull myself from him. His arms come around me and pull me to his chest.

We lay like this forever. Me listening to the rhythm of his heart, the way it starts to slow, along with his breath. He draws lazy circles on my skin. “Write me a story.” His chest vibrates with his voice.

I feel myself smile. We’re writing a story right now. A beautiful one.

“What kind?”

Three beats go by before he says, “Something wildly dramatic.” His hand waves in the air as he speaks. “Make it depressing enough for me to cry.”

I could never write a story that doesn’t have a happy ending. “When was the last time you cried?” I ask, wondering out loud.

He counts on his fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe ten or fifteen years ago.”

“What?” I all but shout at him.

He shrugs, the movement raises and drops my head.

I say with an edge of seriousness to up the dramatics, “Something you should know about me, Grayson, is when I see a challenge, I’m determined to overcome it. I vow right here to break that ten-year streak of yours.”

His chest vibrates beneath my ear with laughter. “Good luck with that, Tato.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re back to that one, are we?”

“What would you prefer I call you?” The question reminds me of a story. A rivalry between an angry girl and an arrogant prick, set in the JFK airport. Nonetheless, I smile at the memory. It’sourstory.

“Mace,” I whisper. “I like when you call me Mace.”

“It’s settled then,” he says with a smile in his voice. “Dream of me, Mace.”

“Still as arrogant as ever.”And just as charming.

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