Page 60 of The End of Summer

He catches my gaze and locks into it. “I’d like to finish it.”

“Here? Now?”

“I mean, this is where we are.”

I gulp. “We need music.”

He holds up his phone. “Got us covered.” He pokes around on Spotify. “I’ll stick with your theme of early 2000s club music.”

The intro to the song reminds me of a xylophone, or chimes, or some plucked string instrument that I can’t exactly place but in this moment, it’s like a shot in my gut. Muscle memory. I immediately recall the melody. My mom commented that it “wasn’t appropriate for a kids’ dance class anyway” as she raced me to the hospital with three broken toes.

I stand there, trying to place the tune. The lyrics begin, and I remember. It’sDip It Lowby Christina Milian.

Brady pushes his chair back from the table, stands, and holds his hand out to me. “May I?” he asks.

I tilt my head, considering him. Then, I take his fingers in my palm, noticing how long and thick they are, like they’re better suited for building a house instead of being an assistant manager at a country club restaurant. He pulls me up to standing and angles my body so that I’m facing him. With one hand on my waist, he gives me a look I can’t quite place – a cross between brooding and mysterious, until he breaks it with a mischievous bite on his lower lip. Brady rolls his hips into me slowly while gently pushing my head toward my exposed shoulder, presenting my bare neck to his waiting mouth. He doesn’t kiss me, though. He breathes me in, glides his face up to my earlobe and breathlessly whispers, “Where were we?”

The beat drops, and his movements become a current of ins and outs, sharp and smooth, curves, shapes, and lines. Brady drops to the floor in some flip that he makes look absolutely effortless before he pops right back up in the reverse of the exact same move. In his T-shirt and sweatpants, he has full range of motion. My crowded little living room can barely take the length of his 6’2” body writhing around me on the floor. As Christina’s voice builds toward the chorus, Brady sidles up in front of me and places his knee between mine. Hands on my hips, he rocks me back and forth in time with the beat. The sweatpants leave little to my fertile imagination as his arousal becomes evident beneath the cotton. This isn’t the club, though. This is my house, and my body betrays my better sense of judgment.

My hips match Brady’s movements, as if to say,You think you’re worked up? I’ll show you worked up.I body roll once, twice, pushing myself into him. It feels… otherworldly. My hands begin to wander, first around his neck, then down his back, my nails frustrated with the fabric that separates them from his skin.

Until it doesn’t.

Brady licks his lips and nods at me once before slithering down my body. With my legs still shoulder-width apart, I feel his hands wrap under my thighs and in one quick motion, he’s got me in the air, in the position of straddling a chair, and he pulls my pelvis straight into him, making sure that I can feel every inch of what I’m doing to him. We sway together with the music, and because Brady is securely cradling my ass and thighs with his open palms, I’ve got my hands free to tug at the hem of his shirt. I lift it as much as I can, revealing his abs, which are glorious.

“Jesus,” I inadvertently whisper aloud.

He sets me back down on the ground and crosses his arms at the base hem of his T-shirt, then drags it over his head to give me a glimpse of what I’m dying to see. I bite down so hard on my lower lip I’m afraid I might bleed. The shirt drops to the floor.

Brady does three pelvic thrusts before wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me in close again. He puts his lips to my ear and grazes the lobe with his tongue. My eyes roll into the back of my head. “More?” he asks.

“Mm hmm,” I reply, a guttural sound that comes from somewhere in the back of my throat. Before I can say anything else, he spins me in a 180 and I’m backing myself up into him, able to feel him from a whole new angle. His hands pull me in by the waist, gripping my thin tank top, balling it up into his fists at my sides. He slides it up my belly, then pauses just below my breasts. “This okay?” he breathes into me. I turn to face him and, with a bravery that comes from somewhere metaphysical, I pull the shirt off over my own head. The central air hits my nipples; they instantly morph into solid pink berries. The hunger that burns in Brady’s eyes is mirrored in my own gluttonous desire.

He stops moving, despite encouragement from the directive-based lyrics of the song. He just stares, his gaze transfixed on my breasts. “God damn,” he mutters.

Just then, my phone rings.

I pick it up off the kitchen table with the intent of silencing it, not even considering the fact that it’s after one in the morning and the only reason anyone calls at this time is for tragic news or for a booty call – and the only booty call possibility in my life right now is standing right in front of me.

I check the screen. “Shit,” I say.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Cherry.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BRADY

Iurge Gretchen to take the phone call.

Not that Iwanther to, mind you. It’s just – I know it’ll crawl inside of her head, and she strikes me as the type of woman who won’t be able to relax knowing there’s something hanging over her.

And I want her to be totally relaxed when we do what it seems like we were just about to start doing.

“Hello?” she says, mouthingI’m sorryto me, a pained look on her face.

I shake my head to indicate she’s got nothing to be sorry for. I pick her tank top up off the floor and hand it to her. “Uh huh. Well, yeah, that’s why I called,” she says, sliding the shirt over her head with the phone still in her hand.

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