Page 57 of The Pairing

He makes a sound in his throat and rolls off toward the wall as I climb into bed.

“That’s the plan,” he murmurs.

I switch off the light and crawl under the sheet, hooking my leg over the side of the mattress to anchor myself as far from him as possible. Behind me, Kit settles in. I wish my body didn’t still recognize the exact pitch of the mattress sagging under his weight.

“Good night, Kit,” I say, instead of screaming into my pillow.

A long moment goes by before Kit says, “Good night, Theo.”

I’m in the desert.

We’re on a blanket in the back of my car with the seats folded down, the hatch open, our boots lined up in the dust by the back tire. These deep summer days in the valley are so long, but Kit wanted to wait up for the Milky Way. He once said it was like a huge butter knife had spread the galaxy across the sky, swirls of stars like blackberry jam.

He tips his head back to moan. I see stars in the shine of sweat on his throat.

His legs are around me. I’m gripping his waist with one hand while the other works him, my hips against the backs of his thighs, his mouth already open when I bend to kiss it. He’s so pretty like this, coming apart. His body follows mine like a disciple.

Sometimes when I’m on top of Kit, when I’m making him sigh and shiver and beg—when I’m fucking him like this—I feel more present in my skin than I ever have. All the pieces in their right places. I wonder if anyone else in the whole blackberry-jam galaxy has ever loved someone so much that it made their soul feel fixed in their body.

Then, in a heartbeat, I’m not in the desert anymore.

I’m with Kit, but we’re inside a restaurant with stained glass windows. I’m atop a wooden table at the center of a feast, surrounded by overflowing dishes of melting chocolate and ripe tomatoes and fruit in spiced syrup. Kit sits on a chair between my parted legs, devouring an apricot, nectar glistening on his lips and chin.

He throws away the pit and brings me to his mouth, and I—

I wake up to a yell on the street.

Fuck.

I’m—where, again? Spain. Barcelona. A hostel near La Rambla. In a single bed, next to Kit.

Only, I’m not next to Kit. I’m wrapped around him, my face on his chest, my arm thrown over his waist, his arm around my shoulders. And I suspect, from the way one of his thighs is pinned between mine, I’ve been grinding against him in my sleep.

Fuck.Fuck.

Sunlight presses on my eyelids, but I’m too afraid to lift them. This is what I get for going to sleep horny—and for bringing up our camping trips, which were mostly an excuse to have sex in creative new locations. One of our memories got out of the vault, and now I’m having wet dreams.

Kit’s breathing is deep and slow, so at least he’s still asleep. If I can manage not to wake him up, he never needs to know.

Carefully, gradually, incrementally, I disentangle myself and roll away toward the other side of the bed.

Just when I think I’ve made it, Kit lets out an unhappy grumble and turns onto his side, pulling me back into his chest.

When Kit and I were together, his body became so familiar that I stopped sensing it as separate from my own. Every inch came as naturally as the slice of my hand through water. Now, I can feel all the subtle changes: his longer hair brushing my skin in new places, the impression of a new scar on his knee. All those hours kneading dough and throwing around sacks of flour—and poets, I guess—have added a layer of lithe muscle to his chest andshoulders.

His hips shift against me. My heartbeat skips as I realize: He’s hard.

He is not, I tell myself, hard forme.It’s a bodily response, like goose bumps, or a sneeze. But if hewashard for me, if he woke up right now and pressed himself against me and scraped his teeth over my pulse, I know I wouldn’t stop him. I’d welcome it. I would send this creaky, too-small bed to the big Ikea store in the sky.

I have to get the fuck out.

I try wriggling away, but with every inch I gain, his body instinctively closes the gap. He’s making unconscious sounds of frustration, whimpers that do absolutely nothing to strengthen my resolve. Every time I feel him hard and heavy through our thin layers of fabric, I have to concentrate on how mortified he would be if he knew what he was doing. I’m saving both our dignities here.

Or at least that’s what I’m trying to do when we tip over theside of the mattress and crash to the floor.

Kit startles awake with a shout that could be a mixture of English and French or just a bunch of affrighted vowels. His arms momentarily tighten around me, and then he goes absolutely still.

“Theo?”

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