Page 72 of Leave Before I Love You
“Henry!” I exclaim, but he just chuckles, carrying me over to the sitting area. He lays me down on one of the plush outdoor couches, the cushions soft beneath me. The bright blue sky stretches out above us, but my focus is entirely on him.
He doesn’t waste any time. His hands slide to the waistband of my pants, and he tugs them down with deliberate ease. I’m already aroused, my body responding to him like it’s second nature.
His gaze travels over me, dark and hungry, and he leans down to press his lips to mine. The kiss is deep and demanding, and I can’t help the way my hips arch toward him, seeking more. His hands trail down my thighs, his touch igniting every nerve ending as he moves lower.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice thick with desire. “And I miss having you around all the time.”
I reach up, threading my fingers through his hair, and pull him closer. My heart races, the heat between us building with every touch, every kiss, every whispered word. Up here, high above the city, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world.
Back in our precious bubble.
I whisper the truth because saying it any louder might shatter me. “I’m ridiculously attached to you too.”
January 19th
Henry
It’s early on Saturday morning, the hour when the city is still quiet and the light filtering through the blinds is faint, and the soft sound of running water pulls me toward the bathroom.
Avery stayed over again last night, and not just because we can’t seem to get enough of each other, but because June has a key to her place and is driving her crazy. She does phone check-ins, surprise drop-ins, coffee dates, bed turndown service, and everything in between, still reeling from the scare of having Avery missing for two weeks. Avery says, and I quote, “For all I know, she’ll show up and try to offer assistance while I’m inserting your cock.”
Considering our current keeping-it-a-secret status, June’s handy-dandy hand service seems like a step too far. Not to mention the implications of my best friend’s wife putting her hand on my cock, in an assisting capacity or not, are a wee bit uncomfortable.
Personally, I’m ready to be out in the open, but Avery’s not and I understand why. Our friends and family are a lot.
Just this morning alone, I’ve gotten three texts from Ronnie and Mav offering to stop by on their way home from the bar, a text from Beau checking in while he makes an early breakfast for Addy, and several missed calls from Cara about shit I don’t even want tothink about on the weekend. And Avery’s got her parents, grandparents, and a whole other set of friends on top of that.
The door to my bathroom is cracked open, steam curling out and filling the air with the scent of Avery—sweet and floral, like sugar and fresh roses. As I step inside, the sight of the counter makes me smile. It’s covered in Avery’s things. Little jars of face creams, a bottle of lotion she religiously applies to her legs before bed, leaving her skin impossibly soft and making her smell like a goddamn dessert. Even her silk eye mask is folded neatly to the side, which she claims is essential for preventing wrinkles.
It’s ridiculous and endearing all at once.
Avery is what a lot of men would call “high-maintenance,” and much like them, I used to find it intimidating. Women’s minds and emotions are complex enough on their own—add in a fifty-step routine you can’t interrupt or mess up with your own shit, and you’re talking about climbing a mountain of understanding. But it’s funny what a little perspective shift can do, and after spending every minute, awake and not, with Avery on that island, I feel like I understand her better than ever.
Just as the wind blows for adventure and high adrenaline for me, fashion and beauty do it for Avery. She’s passionate, and in my newly formed opinion, passion can’t be misplaced. She cares about it, and I care about her, so that’s all that matters.
Plus, it’s always but always a fucking adventure. The other night, she came to bed with this fucking hockey-mask-looking, Halloween-Jason-esque thing over her face and nearly gave me a heart attack. She told me it was red-light therapy, and before I knew it, she had me wearing the damn thing for the required twenty minutes to help heal any sun damage I got when we were stranded on the island.
“Thirteen days without sunscreen, Henry, is just asking for skin cancer,”she told me.“You need red-light therapy. And probably a skin peel, so I’ll work on getting you an appointment at Fredrick. Oh my gawd. I swear, that man has magic hands or something. His facials are heaven.”
I, of course, made the small mistake of asking who Fredrick was,and that led to her telling me all about her aesthetician Fredrick who does Botox and all sorts of other shit I can’t remember.
I told her that I was down for her to do whatever she felt she needed to, but that it wasn’t necessary for me to get to know Fredrick because I’m a man. But I got some kind of text message confirmation last night saying I have an appointment with Fredrick for a fucking face peel next week, so I’m pretty sure that boundary didn’t hold at all.
And you’ll probably end up going, too.
I laugh to myself as I glance toward the shower, the glass fogged but not enough to obscure Avery completely. She’s standing under the stream of water, her head tilted back as she rinses shampoo from her hair. Her skin is still tanned from our time on the island, her body etched into my memory in a way I’ll never shake.
Without hesitating, I strip off my boxers and step into the shower with her. The warm water hits my skin, and she doesn’t notice me at first, her eyes closed as she massages her scalp.
“Let me do it,” I say softly, my voice cutting through the sound of the water.
Her eyes flutter open, one brow arching as she peeks at me through the curtain of water. “Do what?”
“I know I probably don’t have Freddie’s magic hands, but…” I grin, stepping closer and gently turning her around so her back is to me. “Let me help.”
“Fredrick,” she corrects through a snort.
“My bad,” I tease and give my best—aka horrible—French accent.“Fredrick.”
